Ruth 
Me  Energy 
kS  tuar  t 


I 

7 


MISS^MARY  ALLEN 

94  WEST  104th  ST, 
\N£W  YORK  01  iY 


The  Cocoon 


"/  am  a  cocoon;  or  must  I  ,vay  in  a  cocoon?' 


The  Cocoon 


A  Rest-Cure 
Comedy 


By 


Ruth  McEnery  Stuart 

Author  of  "Sonny,"  "Sonny't  Fathtr,"  etc. 


New   York 

Hearst's  International   Library  Co. 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
HEARST'S  INTERNATIONAL  LIBRARY  Co.,  INC. 

&U   righti    rtttrutd.    Including    thi    translation    into 
ianguagti,    including    thi    Scandinavian, 


Oh,  some  seek  bread  —  no  more  —  life's  mere  sub- 
sistence, 

And  some  seek  wealth  and  ease — the  common 
quest; 

And  some  seek  fame,  that  hovers  in  the  distance ; 
But  all  are  seeking  rest. 

FREDERICK  LANGBRIDGE. 


2228501 


The  Cocoon 


THE    COCOON 

Seafair  Sanitarium,  Va., 

Feb.  17,  1913. 
My  dear  Jack: 

I  am  a  cocoon;  or  must  I  say  in  a  cocoon? 
Is  the  cocoon  the  shell  or  the  shell  and  the 
worm?  Dictionaries  are  downstairs  and  "  hours 
for  consultation  "  limited.  I  saw  that  posted  on 
the  wall  as  I  came  through  the  corridors,  but 
maybe  it  doesn't  refer  to  the  dictionaries.  Any- 
way, I'm  it  —  the  poor  worm  going  into  oblivion 
to  get  its  wings. 

It's  on  the  roof  —  the  cocoonery  —  and  the  co- 
coons are  of  the  long  and  narrow  variety.  Ba- 
sically, they  are  single  cots  into  which  a  certain 
youth  of  mountaineer  suggestions  and  seolian 
drawl  tucks  every  human  worm  which  comes  up 
for  transformation.  Officially  he  is  "  roof -stew- 
ard." 

.When  I  reached  his  domain  this  morning  I 
I 


2  THE     COCOON 

fairly  gasped  over  the  wonder  and  beauty  of  the 
scene.  All  the  south,  sea-space,  sky  and  water, 
"wedded  in  infinity."  The  east,  nearly  all  sea. 
West,  likewise.  Then  the  solid  north,  a  rim  of 
vari-tinted  green,  vivid  pines  straggling  down  to 
the  w-ater's  edge;  hoary  live-oak  bearded  with 
Spanish  moss,  dignifying  without  breaking  the 
line,  and  offering  a  fine  foil  to  the  gnarled 
but  resolutely  young  magnolias  which  stand 
around  like  the  urban  bachelors  who  live  in  our 
city  clubs,  groomed  to  the  limit,  erect,  polished, 
even  offensively  redolent  of  the  perfumes  with 
which  they  naively  embalm  the  cherished  re- 
mains of  their  dead  but  unburied  youth. 

Between  green  of  shore  and  blue  of  sea  is  a 
strip  of  gleaming  sand,  white  enough  to  delight 
a  dentist  and,  to  my  mind,  grimly  suggesting  the 
perpetual  border  war  between  the  two  elements 
confronting  each  other,  the  sea  tirelessly  aggres- 
sive, the  land  showing  its  teeth  and  holding  its 
own. 

But  the  most  wonderful  thing  of  all  is  the 
smell  —  or,  I  do  believe  I  must  make  that  plu- 
ral, for  even  now  as  I  sniff,  there  come  to  me 
hints  of  mingled  sweets.  First,  permeating  all 


THE     COCOON  3 

things,  is  the  ubiquitous  pine  which  sings  itself 
into  your  consciousness,  titillating  your  ears 
with  needly  cadences;  but  before  you  can  say, 
"  How  sweet  the  pine  is ! "  you  are  realising 
roses  and  daffodils.  I  could  go  out  now  and 
gather  a  bathtub  of  jonquils  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  Sanitarium;  this,  with  the  beauty 
and  music  of  the  sea  thrown  in.  Oh,  the  sea! 
How  I  love  it! 

Do  forgive  so  much  description,  dear  Jack. 
You  know  I'm  not  given  to  it,  and  I'll  probably 
never  offend  in  this  way  again,  but  just  now,  at 
first,  let  me  share  my  delight  with  you. 

Really,  when  I  came  up  and  looked  around 
and  sniffed,  I  fairly  giggled  with  pure  sensuous 
delight.  I  wanted  to  be  good  as  I  stood  there. 
It  is  heavenly,  Dear;  yes,  even  Heavenly  with  a 
capital  H. 

And,  by  the  way,  lest  I  forget:  I've  arranged 
to  have  my  mail  sent  up  by  hand  from  the  village 
postoffice,  addressed  simply  to  the  Sanitarium, 
Suite  99.  And  you,  Dear,  are  to  direct  all  mail 
simply  to  Seafair,  Va.,  P.  O.  Box  21.  I  watched 
the  Titian-haired  Juno  who  sorts  the  mail  in  the 
rotunda  here,  and  I  saw  her  and  the  blond 


4  THE     COCOON 

youth,  her  assistant,  hesitate  and  smile  orer  cer- 
tain letters,  even  holding  one  up  to  the  light 
before  consigning  it  to  its  pigeon-hole.  I 
couldn't  stand  that,  so  remember  Box  21.  I 
chose  the  number  for  good  luck,  all  threes  and 
sevens,  whether  you  add  or  multiply. 

I  see  you  smiling  over  that  "  bathtub  of  jon- 
quils," dear  Jack.  You  think  I'm  exaggerating 
again,  but  I'm  not.  Why,  I  actually  saw  a  bath- 
tub filled  with  them,  in  the  suite  of  one  of  the 
patients. 

Isn't  it  strange  how  gossip  reaches  you  before 
you  get  your  hat  off?  When  I  arrived  yester- 
day —  after  mail-time,  Dear,  or  you  should  have 
had  a  letter  —  the  "  Keceiving  Matron  "  took  me 
around,  showing  me  rooms.  I  wanted  a  private 
bath,  of  course,  and  the  only  one  nearly  avail- 
able was,  is,  in  the  south  tower,  to  be  vacated 
"  to-morrow,"  which  is  to-day,  and  I'm  to  be  in  it 
presently.  The  present  occupant  was  on  the 
roof  cocooning,  so  I  didn't  meet  her. 

You'd  like  my  little  suite  —  a  fairly  largish 
sitting-room  with  a  bay-window  to  the  seaward 
side ;  an  alcove  holding  a  narrow  bed ;  a  few  ta- 
bles and  things ;  a  row  of  electric  buttons  —  and 


THE     COCOON  5 

the  bath.  And  it's  No.  99,  don't  forget,  or  yes, 
you  may  forget.  Your  number  is  21  (box). 

Well,  the  bathtub  there  was  filled  with  jon- 
quils. In  all  my  life,  I  have  never  seen  so  many 
together  before. 

It  seems  that  the  present  No.  99  —  we  go  by 
numbers  here,  like  convicts  —  the  present  99,  I 
say,  is  a  little  queer  and  she  strolled  out  into  the 
gardens  and  began  to  gather  and  she  didn't  know 
when  to  stop  —  and  that's  why  she's  leaving. 
The  "  patrol "  nurse  who  promenades  the  pergola 
called  to  her  that  there  was  reason  in  all  things 
and  she  replied  that  there  was  a  reason  why  she 
kept  on  gathering,  but  she  didn't  say  what  it 
was. 

So  she  not  only  gathered  until  dark  but,  when 
the  moon  rose,  she  went  out  again  and  again,  just 
in  her  nightie,  and  the  last  time  she  came  in  with 
her  lap  full,  she  lost  her  way,  poor  dear,  and 
walked  through  the  lobby  where  the  men  were 
smoking  —  and  it  didn't  look  well.  Fve  seen 
her  to-day  and  she  is  beautiful  but  sad.  I'm 
hoping  she'll  leave  the  jonquils,  for  I'd  like  to 
inherit  them.  Poor  little  sister ! 

But  I  began  telling  you  about  the  roof  and  the 


6  THE     COCOON 

cocoonery,  and,  by  the  way,  the  cocoon  is  the 
shell.  I  didn't  have  to  "  consult " ;  I  remem- 
bered. 

Well,  I'm  happy  to  say,  it's  my  first  prescrip- 
tion, the  roof.  I  begin  cocooning  to-morrow 
morning.  Indeed,  it's  my  only  prescription,  ex- 
cepting sundry  rubs  and  sprays  and  girdles  and 
kneadings  —  just  a  few  little  things  like  that, 
not  counting  the  sea  treatments,  "  sand-sop- 
pings,"  and  a  lot  of  perfectly  fascinating  bare- 
foot stunts.  Nothing  to  swallow  and  gag  over. 
I  noticed  the  word  "  thermo-electric "  on  my 
treatment-card  and  it  looks  a  bit  scary,  but  I 
don't  mind,  so  long  as  I  don't  have  to  swallow 
the  thing  and  you  not  here  to  wrap  it  in  pre- 
serves and  to  fan  me  and  change  the  subject. 

I've  got  old  Dr.  Jacques  for  my  physician  and 
I  was  greatly  complimented  at  his  taking  me, 
for  he  assumes  only  special  patients  now.  He 
just  walks  around,  smiling  in  his  white  halo,  and 
seems  to  impersonate  the  love  of  God,  all  un- 
consciously, of  course. 

He  took  me  on  sight,  just  as  you  did,  poor 
Jack,  on  my  looks.  You  see,  you  were  not  here 


THE    COCOON  7 

to  warn  him.  He  looked  me  over,  really  sci- 
entifically, and  then  he  turned  his  kind  old  eyes 
on  me  and  they  seemed  to  say,  "  Crawl  in,  little 
one,  and  forget.  Be  a  worm  for  a  while." 

Of  course,  I  am  in  a  sense  honoured  in  being 
his  patient  and  yet,  I  don't  know  —  exactly.  Un- 
fortunately, or  fortunately,  according  to  how  one 
looks  at  it,  I  overheard  him  say  to  one  of  the 
young  doctors  of  the  staff  when  he'd  been  putting 
me  through  my  paces,  "  I  think  I'd  better  handle 
that  little  brand  myself."  Just  that  way  he  said 
it  and  what  do  you  suppose  he  meant?  Did  he 
refer  to  some  special  brand  of  woman  —  or  of 
nerve  tire  —  or  the  kind  of  brand  one  snatches 
from  the  burning  —  or  just  a  common,  every-day 
firebrand?  In  other  words,  does  he  regard  me 
as  an  interesting  patient  or  an  element  of  dan- 
ger? Maybe  I'll  ask  him  when  I  know  him 
better,  though  I  doubt  it.  Haloes  always  silence 
me,  somehow,  and,  too,  there  is  a  note  of  finality 
in  all  he  says.  And  yet  he  isn't  without  humour 
either. 

For  instance,  seeing  his  professional  glance 
turned  upon  me  this  morning,  I  said  playfully, 


8  THE     COCOON 

"  When  you  look  at  me  that  way,  doctor,  it  seems 
to  me  you  can  see  right  through  me.  How's 
my  vermiform  appendix  to-day?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  just  as  I  expected  to  find  it,"  he 
smiled  out,  "  curled  with  a  curling-iron  and  tied 
with  a  blue  ribbon  " ;  and  then,  lest  I  should  pre- 
sume upon  his  condescension,  perhaps,  he  added 
as  he  rose  to  go :  "A  few  weeks  on  the  roof  for 
you  —  and  then,  we'll  see.  Maybe  you'd  like  to 
go  sand-sopping  on  the  beach  —  a  little  later." 

"  Oh,  I'd  love  that,"  I  replied. 

"  Yes,  they  all  love  it  from  the  roof — and  after 
a  while  they  love  it  for  itself.  That's  where  we 
give  them  their  final  tan  and  their  grit " 

"  I  brought  my  sand  and  grit  with  me,"  I 
vulgarly  interrupted,  but  he  was  gone  and  I  felt 
like  a  glib  little  fool,  as  I  so  often  do.  Evidently 
he  thinks  me  frivolous  just  because  I  play  around 
a  tragic  situation. 

There  are  boats  to  hire  at  the  pier,  both  sail 
and  row  boats,  but  to  go  there  one  must  have  a 
doctor's  permit.  It  seems  that  some  nervous 
patients  haven't  been  able  to  resist  the  call  of  the 
deep  as  they  heard  it  at  the  pier,  and  so 


THE    COCOON  9 

Feb.  18. 

My  dinner-tray  came  in  just  here,  yesterday, 
and  after  dinner  there  were  things  to  do,  not  by 
me,  just  to  me  —  treatment-card  obligations,  you 
know,  steamings  and  things,  and  that's  why  I 
sent  only  the  telegram.  I've  been  on  the  roof  all 
this  forenoon  and  it's  great.  I  just  went  up  and 
nodded  to  the  seolian  youth  whose  name,  by  the 
way,  I  find  to  be  Jefferson  Davis  Beauregard 
Johnson,  and  in  a  jiffy  he  had  me  tucked  in  quite 
out  of  sight,  out  in  the  full  sunlight  with  all 
possible  wind-exposures,  one  of  a  row  of  the  most 
uninteresting  and  non-committal  cocoons  you 
ever  saw. 

At  first  glance,  it  looked  like  a  prospect  of  a 
survival  of  the  fittest  and  as  if  you  might  be  at 
this  moment  taking  all  the  chances  there  are  of 
early  widowerhood;  but  not  so.  The  comfort  of 
the  worm  is  beyond  words.  The  fluffy  com- 
fortables which  cover  us  are  riotous  in  colour 
and  design,  but  I  soon  forgot  the  green  dragons 
which  were  chasing  red  vultures  through  a  purple 
expanse  over  my  submissive  person  when  I  was 
submerged  in  the  lulling  softness  of  their  un- 


10  THE     COCOON 

dersides  while  the  unadulterated  air  of  heaven 
was  mine  for  the  breathing. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  study  astronomy.  I'll 
never  have  such  another  chance,  I  know,  unless 
I  prove  too  good  for  this  world  and  go  to  live 
among  the  stars  and,  even  then,  the  perspective 
would  be  lacking.  But  while  I  was  trying  to 
locate  Jupiter  and  to  find  Saturn's  rings,  I  fell 
asleep  and  slept  nine  hours.  Think  of  it !  I  who 
haven't  been  able  to  snatch  two  consecutive  hours 
for  a  year. 

When  I  came  to,  I  didn't  know  where  I  was  for 
a  minute  and  then  there  issued  from  the  cocoon 
next  to  mine  a  sudden  snort  and  I  dodged  and 
drew  in  my  head.  I  had  just  poked  it  out  the 
least  bit.  You  see,  you  can't  tell  a  thing  about 
the  occupants  of  these  cocoons  from  their  out- 
sides.  It's  a  case  of  "  All  cocoons  look  alike  to 
me." 

But  I  tell  you,  Jack,  that  snort  was  terrific  — 
and  so  near!  It  transformed  the  cocoonery  for 
me.  It  became  instantly  a  menagerie  of  wild 
beasts.  I  lay  very  still,  my  heart  thumping  and 
imagination  running  riot  for  about  ten  minutes 
1 —  it  seemed  an  eternity  —  when  suddenly,  with- 


THE    COCOON  11 

out  any  warning,  the  covers  of  the  snorting  cot 
flew  up,  and  with  a  gymnastic  spring  there 
stood,  within  three  feet  of  your  wife,  a  brigand, 
if  there  ever  was  one  —  deep-set  eyes,  long  ring- 
lety hair,  loose  joints,  square  shoulders  —  and 
the  whole,  six  feet  six  I  should  say,  and  lower- 
ing. 

My  heart  didn't  get  any  better  as  he  unfolded 
and  stood.  You  see,  I  had  fallen  asleep  thinking 
of  butterflies  in  the  making  and  I  half  expected 
to  see  wings  emerge,  figuratively  at  least,  as  the 
layers  would  begin  to  unroll. 

I  don't  know  who  he  is,  the  brigand,  but  he's 
somebody,  if  only  a  high  adventurer.  But  while 
I  was  recovering  from  him,  he  having  in  the 
meantime  stalked  away,  the  cot  next  beyond  his 
changed  contour  and  an  old  lady  sat  up,  labor- 
iously pulled  herself  together,  gathered  up  a  Bos- 
ton bag,  a  hot  water  bag  in  a  knitted  case,  a 
tippet,  a  plaid  shawl  and  a  copy  of  the  Transcript 
and  toddled  away.  She  was  almost  too  true  to 
type.  I  wished  there  might  have  been  something 
missing,  but  there  never  is,  not  in  ye  Bostonian. 
Of  course,  I  know  just  about  what  she  had  in  her 
bag,  but  I'm  not  telling. 


12  THE     COCOON 

Well,  then  I  found  myself  guessing  and  I've 
been  at  it  ever  since.  Lots  of  colourless  bromidic 
people  here  and  several  delicious  sulphites 
already  in  my  eye,  besides  the  brigand.  Oh,  it's 
immense!  No  more  astronomy  for  yours  truly. 
I  fear  you  are  badly  married,  Jack  dear,  for  your 
wife  is  of  the  earth  earthy,  so  easily  is  she  seduced 
from  the  way  of  high  thinking ! 

It's  the  charm  of  uncertainty.  A  star  is  al- 
ways a  star,  and  when  you  know  it  and  its  rou- 
tine, its  very  consistency  makes  it  a  dull  jewel ; 
but  this  menagerie  —  it  keeps  you  guessing. 
You  know  there's  a  human  worm  in  every  cocoon 
and  the  very  fact  of  its  being  there  proves  that 
it's  in  the  play;  one  of  the  dramatis  personae  in 
the  great  tragedy  of  "  Life  and  Death."  We're 
all  in  it,  whether  we  realise  it  or  not.  I  know 
I'm  cast  for  something  and  sometimes  I'm  afraid 
to  stir  lest  I  jostle  my  cap  and  ring  my  bells. 
Of  course  mine  must  be  a  comedy  part  with  my 
playful  nose  and  yellow  hair. 

There's  a  lot  of  printed  matter  distributed  here, 
Jack.  It's  a  bit  didactic,  but  wholesome.  You 
know  how  I  hate  that  word,  wholesome.  For 


THE     COCOON  13 

years  it  ruined  my  celery  and  now  it  threatens  my 
spinach  which  we  are  urged  to  devour,  because  it 
contains  iron,  forsooth.  I  always  suspected  that 
it  exuded  its  own  arsenic  for  colouring  and  seized 
it  voraciously  in  consequence. 

Another  thing,  letter-writing  is  discouraged. 
Hence  this  longest-letter-I've-written-in-a-year. 
I  can't  help  it.  I'm  made  that  way.  No  more  of 
our  old  cipher  for  me  excepting  the  one  word 
"  Wad,"  and  you'll  never  forget  precisely  what 
it  means,  "  I  am  sorry,  Husband  of  my  Heart, 
but  money  wholly  dissolved.  Kindly  remit." 
Ordinary  letters,  italics  or  capitals,  as  usual,  to 
indicate  the  urgency  of  action ;  "  wad  " —  so  — 
meaning  just  general  exhaustion ; <e  wad  " —  thus 
—  in  italics,  pretty  hard  up ;  but  "  WAD," —  all 
capitals  —  well,  it  wouldn't  hurt  to  telegraph  re- 
lief to  the  capital  "WAD."  But  I'm  going  to 
be  economical.  I  know  this  is  costing  you  a  lot. 

And  don't  worry.  I'm  comfy  to  a  degree.  My 
wee  bed  is  semi-soft  and  ultra-clean  and  is  con- 
veniently placed  for  forbidden  reading  in  bed; 
and  as  for  service,  pressing  a  button  in  reach  of 
my  hand  over  my  pillow  will  bring  me  anything 


14  THECOCOON 

from  a  growing  orchid  to  a  masseuse  in  livery, 
with  her  bottle  of  cocoanut  oil  and  alcohol  — 
and  her  smile. 

I've  been  here  hardly  two  days  and  I'm  on  to 
that  institutional  smile  and,  frankly,  I'm  too 
tired  to  stand  much  of  it,  and  that  isn't  all.  One 
official  visiting  lady  —  I  say  she's  official,  just 
from  the  consistency  of  her  service — well,  she 
doesn't  hesitate  to  tell  you  that  she  loves  you. 
She  has  told  me  so  twice  already  and  I  was  be- 
ginning to  wonder  if  perchance  I  might  be  so 
obviously  lovable  that  strange  women  were  be- 
ginning to  tell  me  so,  when  the  loving  visitant 
happened  to  cross  the  roof,  passing  between  our 
cots,  and  I  heard  a  voice  say  in  a  muffled  tone, 
"Aren't  you  glad  she  loves  you?  "  and  the  gen- 
eral titter  which  followed  gave  me  my  cue. 

I  don't  intend  to  stand  it,  dear  Jack.  If  she 
tells  me  she  loves  me  to-morrow,  I'll  say,  "  Oh 
thanks,  awfully.  So  you  told  me  yesterday." 
And  I  don't  think  she'll  keep  it  up. 

It's  not  because  the  poor  thing  is  wall-eyed 
and  her  braids  don't  match  her  hair,  nor  yet  on 
account  of  her  parenthetical  smile  which  is  the 
worst  ever.  I  realise  that  she  is  smiling  against 


THECOCOON  15 

big  odds  and  I  give  her  credit  for  it ;  but  no  living 
woman  shall  by  word  or  act  make  love  to  me ;  no 
woman,  and  only  one  man. 

Don't  think  I  am  unkind.  I  know  she's  my 
sister  and  so  is  a  Zulu  grandmother  and  I  have 
brotherly  or  sisterly  love  for  them  both,  in  a  way 
—  far  away.  I'd  like  a  sort  of  foreign  missions 
relation  with  them.  She  quotes  Scripture,  too, 
and  of  course  she  has  a  right  to;  but  you  see,  I 
have  my  own  Bible  and  I'm  too  tired.  If  she 
says  any  more  Bible  at  me,  I'm  going  to  say, 
"  Yes,  and  you'll  find  the  same  thing  in  the 
Koran,"  and  that'll  frighten  her  into  silence. 
It's  a  safe  thing  to  say  to  almost  anybody. 

Sanitariums,  or  sanitaria,  are  supposed  to  be 
monotonous  and  maybe  they  are,  after  a  while, 
not  at  first.  Anyhow  I  don't  mind.  I  can  just 
turn  out  the  light  and  unchain  my  mind  and  here 
you  come,  smiling,  smoothing  my  hair  and  telling 
me  how  lonely  the  canary-cage  is  without  me,  till 
I  fall  asleep.  "  Loved  by  thee,"  as  Browning 
says.  Your  desolate,  loving  wife, 

BLESSY. 
P.  S. 

If  this  letter  is  dull,  dear  Jack,  remember  it's 


16  THE     COCOON 

just  the  introduction.  When  these  sulphites  be- 
gin moving,  things  are  sure  to  hum.  But  I 
started  this  postscript  to  remind  you,  dear,  to 
change  your  underthings  with  the  weather. 
Three  thicknesses  in  the  bottom  drawer,  begin- 
ning at  the  left  end;  thin,  thicker,  thick.  It's 
thicker  weather  now,  middle  of  the  drawer  and 
thick  threatening,  I  see  by  New  York  papers. 
Isn't  it  funny  for  thick  to  be  thicker  than  thicker? 
Gracious,  how  I  miss  you! 

Suite  99,  Seafair  Sanitarium, 
SEAFAIR,  Va.,  Feb.  19,  1913. 

I  went  down  to  supper  to-night,  John  (you 
know  how  forlorn  I  feel  when  I  call  you  John), 
and  I  have  seen  the  other  patients  as  they  fore- 
gather at  feed-time  and  well ! 

Pamphlet  No.  1  says  they  "do  not  take  any 
insane  here  "  and,  of  course,  I  believe  them,  but 
it  takes  faith.  The  dining-room  is  handsome 
and  well-appointed,  but  I  don't  want  to  go  into 
it  ever  again  —  not  ever !  It's  the  most  depress- 
ing !  You  know  how  jolly  we  are  always  at  table. 
Well,  I  went  down  just  to  be  cheered  up,  and 
ye  gods!  One  would  have  supposed  speech  had 


THE     CO COON  17 

been  forbidden.  An  occasional  remark,  yes, 
about  as  long  as,  "  Pass  the  panada,"  or, 
"  Poorly,  thank  you,"  but  nothing  beyond.  Ac- 
tually, I  could  hear  them  swallow. 

Of  course  I  couldn't  see  myself,  but  if  I  looked 
as  if  I  belonged  to  that  crowd,  God  help  me. 
Not  that  I  blame  them.  If  people  are  miserable 
—  well,  they  are  miserable  and  of  course  the  ob- 
ligatory smile  doesn't  apply  to  the  patients.  I 
nearly  wrote  inmates,  although  prisoners  would 
be  even  better,  for  it's  quite  the  thing  for  one  to 
ask  another  what  he's  "  in  for." 

Of  course  the  wretched  souls  come  to  the  din- 
ing hall  to  be  nourished,  and  doubtless  they  are. 
I  scorn  to  be  "  nourished."  Don't  bite  your 
moustache.  I  see  you  doing  it.  If  I'm  ridicu- 
lous, that's  what  you  get  for  marrying  an  idiot. 

Feb.  20. 

(And  the  sea  growly.) 

I  wouldn't  mail  that  little  scrap,  dear  Jack — 
or  even  sign  it.  It  was  like  the  sea  to-day, 
grumpy  —  and  besides,  idiot  is  such  an  outland- 
ish word  to  end  a  letter  with. 

Suppose  we  don't  write  any  more  formal  let- 


18  THE     COCOON 

ters.  Let's  just  take  our  pens  and  write  as  we 
say  things  when  you  are  on  your  side  of  the 
library  table  and  I'm  stirring  the  fire.  I  seem 
to  be  stirring  fire  all  the  time,  one  way  or  an- 
other. 

The  name  of  it's  nostalgia,  the  thing  I've  got, 
but  "  taking  me  out  o'  this,"  as  Bridget  says,  will 
cure  it,  so  let's  forget  it;  but  it's  awful  while 
it  lasts  —  simply  awful.  Napoleon  had  it  at  St. 
Helena  and  they  say  it's  epidemic  at  all  the 
American  pleasure  resorts  excepting  Keno.* 

My  loneliest  times  here  are  the  meal  hours,  or 
"  service  for  one  "  on  a  tray.  Ugh !  And  all  the 
perfectly  digestible  foods,  so  offensively  inoffen- 
sive !  I  stood  it  for  two  days ;  then  I  drove  down 
to  the  village  and  bought  some  horseradish  and 
French  mustard  and  Worcestershire  sauce  and 
some  tabasco.  I  got  the  tabasco  just  to  put  on 
the  tray  and  to  hear  you  say,  "  Kindly  pass  the 
hell-fire,  Blessy  dear."  Oh,  how  I  do  miss  your 
dear  language! 

"  What  do  I  do  with  these  things?  "  Why,  I 
just  take  one  after  the  other  and  sprinkle  them 
promiscuously  over  these  blameless  viands  and 

*  The  divorce  colony. 


THE     COCOON  19 

put  the  dishes  on  the  radiator  for  a  little  while 
and  I've  been  quite  successful  thus  far.  The  re- 
sults have  all  been  savoury  and  I've  named 
them  "  revolt "  under  a  general  head  —  and  they 
agree  with  me,  so  don't  worry.  It  is  a  sort  of 
character-building  —  with  a  temperament.  The 
day  I'm  just  tame-good,  look  for  me  to  die;  and 
you'll  be  better  off,  maybe,  but  I  dare  you  to  be 
happier  —  or  busier. 

I  won't  mail  this  to-day.  I  have  to  go  now, 
for  mine  hour  is  come,  so  saith  the  treatment- 
card,  and  in  ten  minutes  I'll  be  taking  "  salt 
spray  followed  by  1,  2,  3,"  these  numerals,  if  you 
care  to  know,  standing  for  patting,  rolling  and 
putting  to  sleep  in  a  specially  temperatured  room, 
a  sort  of  cooling-oven  which  reminds  me  of  the 
old  t(  Pat-a-cake,  pat-a-cake,  baker's  man,"  in 
which  the  cake  finally  arrives  at  similar  treat- 
ment in  the  last  line,  you  remember,  "  Roll  'em 
an'  roll  'em  an'  stick  'em  an'  stick  'em  an'  toss 
'em  in  the  oven ! " 

I've  had  only  one  of  these,  and  when  I'd  been 

turned  into  the  oven,  I  really  felt  as  if  I  needed 

\ 
only  a  little  sugar  and  cinnamon  sprinkled  over 

me  to  make  me  worth  a  penny  apiece. 


20  THECOCOON 

And  now  adieu  for  to-day.  No  dates  or  obli- 
gations. So  even  this  hug  will  be  cooled  before 
you  get  it,  like  the  memory  of  the  embrace  of  a 
dead  wife.  Oh,  how  I  love  to  hate  this  place ! ! ! ! 

BLESSY. 

(I  feel  like  signing  myself  Cussy,  instead  of 
Blessy,  I'm  that  rebellious.) 

Feb.  21st, 
Dear  Jack : 

A  choppy  sea,  spurty  showers  and  short 
answers  from  everybody. 

When  I  wrote  that  about  short  answers  I  had 
forgotten  my  chamber-maid.  She,  who  is  the 
soul  of  amiability  and  altogether  a  delight  in 
her  naive  talk,  says,  "  It  looks  like  as  ef  it's 
a-fixin'  to  rain,"  but  she  says  it  as  a  bird  sings. 
These  musical  southern  voices  have  something 
elemental  about  them.  Sometimes  they  seem 
even  verging  on  tears,  without  being  depressing, 
either. 

She  calls  back,  "  Oh  revore !  "  as  she  goes  out, 
after  sweeping  my  room.  I  asked  her  this  morn- 
ing what  she  had  said,  feigning  not  to  have 
heard,  and  she  replied  chuckling  softly,  "  Oh 


THE    COCOON  21 

I  say  'oh  revore'  just  for  style.  Some  says, 
'  Over  the  river '  an'  again  some  says,  l  Olive 
oil,'  but  I  say  ef  you  say  a  thing,  say  it  right." 
You  see,  she  comes  of  the  poor  white  class  of 
the  hills  which  knows  no  caste  and,  really,  I  en- 
joy it.  This  institution  is  a  godsend  to  these 
people.  They  come  from  the  turpentine  coun- 
try, most  of  them,  and  strongly  suggest  the 
Craddock  types. 

This  girl,  whose  name  is  Malviny-May  —  long 
i  —  asked  me  what  my  given  name  might  be  — 
she  pronounced  it  "giving" — and  when  I  told 
her  "  Doriana  Myrtilla,"  she  repeated  slowly, 
"  Do-ry-any  Myr-til-ly,  I'd  never  get  that  pro- 
nounced in  Kingdom  come,  so  I  reckon  I'll  stick 
to  the  Mrs."  And  so  to  test  her,  I  added  in  a 
friendly  way,  "  I  have  been  called  Blessy  for 
short,"  which  pleased  her,  for  she  answered, 
"  Well,  that's  somethin'  like.  An'  now,  Blessy 
Heminway,  if  you'll  gether  up  yore  frock-tail 
so's  I  can  pass  this  sweepin'-broom  around  them 
doll  slippers  o'  yores,  we'll  git  shet  o*  some  of 
these  germs  we  hear  so  much  about,"  and  there 
wasn't  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  her  face  when  she 
said  it.  I  should  say  the  mountaineer's  first 


22  THECOCOON 

characteristic  is  seriousness.  I  find  it  here  just 
as  in  the  valleys  of  the  Catskills  and  Adiron- 
dacks,  seriousness  and  anemia.  Somehow  they 
seem  correlated. 

I  went  down  to  the  Swedish  house  yesterday, 
Jack,  and  it's  great  fun.  You  know  the  "  Swed- 
ish "  is  a  system  of  physical  exercises  and 
"  treatments  "  as  they  are  called,  same  as  Chris- 
tian Science,  only  different  —  quite  different. 

You  remember  the  quaint  little  cottages  we 
saw  in  Sweden,  or  more  particularly  in  Norway 
at  Frognasaeter  near  Voxenkollen,  out  from 
Christ! ania.  Well,  this  Swedish  headquarters 
is  like  these  —  all  wood-carving  over  rafters  and 
everything,  mostly  grinning  grotesques.  Even 
the  drinking-water  is  drawn  from  the  mouth  of 
a  depressing  gargoyle  which  appears  nauseated, 
and  it  is  disagreeable.  The  poor  thing  is  sick 
at  a  stomach  which  he  has  not. 

But  the  treatment-room  with  all  its  para- 
phernalia in  action  is  tremendous.  Everything 
goes  by  electricity ;  no  end  of  whizzing,  whirring, 
jostling  contraptions  at  once.  The  one  most  in 
demand  now,  at  which  women  wait  in  line  for 
their  turns,  is  a  pair  of  jolting  arms  to  which  the 


THE     COCOON  23 

patient  presents  her  hips  for  their  elimination. 
They  do  a  lot  of  fantastic  manipulations,  these 
wooden  arms  do,  and  I'm  told  they  are  guaran- 
teed to  remove  every  hip  utterly  if  faithfully 
applied,  so  that  the  modish  hipless  garments 
will  fit.  If  hips  come  back  into  fashion,  no 
doubt  some  other  part  of  the  anatomy  will  go 
out,  so  there  will  always  be  work  for  the  elimi- 
nators to  do. 

In  the  old  days  our  grandmothers  were  hour- 
glasses; now  we  are  lead  pencils,  and  I  wonder 
what  our  daughters  will  be,  or  even  ourselves 
next.  This  navigating  in  one  trouser-leg  can't 
last  forever. 

But  the  star  performance  in  the  "  Swedish  " 
is  the  flesh-reducing  horse,  a  wooden  beast  with 
the  head  of  a  nightmare.  When  I  saw  it,  an 
amazonian  lady  with  loose  red  curls  was  in  the 
saddle  and  the  fiery  untamed  going  at  full  gal- 
lop; but  the  humour  of  the  picture  lay  in  the 
rider's  serious  expression  of  Sphinxlike  deter- 
mination. I  didn't  get  on  to  what  it  all  meant 
at  first,  none  of  these  things  being  labelled,  and 
so  I  was  quite  ingenuous  when  I  remarked  audi- 
bly, "  This  is  all  very  well,  but  I  should  find  it 


24  THE     COCOON 

monotonous  not  getting  anywhere."  To  which 
the  rider  replied  without  change  of  muscle,  "  Oh, 
hut  I  do.  I've  got  down  from  301  to  289  in 
19  days."  Then  I  understood  and  I  smiled  back : 
"  I  wonder,  if  I  were  to  get  into  the  saddle  and 
turn  his  head  the  other  way,  if  I  might  get  up 
from  93  to  120  in  five  weeks?  "  And  not  a  soul 
laughed.  This  is  a  deadly  place. 

You  see,  I've  shortened  the  time,  Jacky  dear. 
I  can't  stay  away  from  you  for  three  months, 
not  from  you!  If  I'd  married  anybody  else  — 
or  if  I  were  anywhere  else  —  but  not  here  and 
from  Jack  Heminway!  Nixy! 

She  rides  of  Tuesdays  and  Saturdays  and  I'm 
going  to  stop  in  on  my  way  to  the  "  Facial " 
on  those  days.  Why!  she's  as  good  as  a  movey 
with  a  chance  for  variation.  Forgive  this  ref- 
erence to  my  own  treatments.  Any  ordinary 
wife  in  a  reformatory  like  this  would  fill  up  her 
letters  with  institutional  detail  about  herself, 
but  you'll  never  have  another  reference  from  me, 
unless  some  accident  should  happen  as,  for  in- 
stance, I  should  be  electrocuted  in  the  "  static  " 
or  sun-struck  in  the  solarium  or  moon-struck  in 


THE    COCOON  25 

the  lunarium  or  dessicated  in  the  dryair-ium  or 
yard-broke,  falling  off  the  roof. 

Oh,  yes,  I'm  resting!  Resting  for  all  I'm 
worth  —  I  mean  to  say  for  all  you  are  worth  — 
resting  just  as  strenuously  as  our  leisure  folk 
generally  pursue  their  leisure,  though  differ- 
ently, somewhat.  "  Rest  is  a  change  of  activ- 
ities." Yes,  I'm  resting. 

Do  stop  asking  me  if  I've  called  on  that  Miss 
Carter.  Four  letters  from  you  and  Carter  in 
three  of  them.  Realise,  please,  dear  Jack,  that 
I've  just  come.  But  I'll  go  surely.  Who  is 
she? 

Suite  99,  Feb.  2Sth. 
(And  the  sea  flirty.) 

You  see,  Dear-dear,  I'm  doing  as  I  suggested, 
just  writing  and  stopping  any  old  time.  It's 
more  like  life  than  formal  letters.  I  just  put  in 
a  date  once  in  a  while  as  the  German  frau  drops 
a  raisin  in  her  dough  "  for  a  change." 

Would  you  believe  it,  Jacky  dear?  I'm  hav- 
ing fun. 

Something's  doing.     Something  not  scheduled 


26  THE    COCOON 

in  the  "  rest-cure,"  although  legitimately  born 
of  it.  Of  course,  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  first  thing, 
to  make  it  respectable. 

Listen;  they  don't  know  I'm  married,  here. 
They  think  I'm  your  sister,  Miss  Heminway. 
Even  the  doctors  think  so,  and  I'm  in  for  it.  I 
didn't  understand  it,  for  a  while.  And  that 
isn't  all;  there  are  complications.  It's  this 
blonde  hair,  Jack  —  or  partly  that  —  the  com- 
plications. 

The  mistake  happened  naturally  enough  when 
I  arrived.  The  office  clerk  pushed  the  big  book 
over  to  me  and  said,  "  Sign  please,"  and  so  I  did 
dutifully,  writing  my  full  name  unabashed, 
Doriana  Myrtilla  Van  der  Weyden  Heminway, 
just  so.  If  he  had  said  "  Register,"  I'd  have 
written  proudly  "  Mrs.  J.  Dartmouth  Hemin- 
way," but  a  signature  is  a  signature  and  he  said 
"  Sign  " —  said  it  in  a  voice  accustomed  to  com- 
mand. It  seems  that  you  didn't  explain  that 
your  sister,  Miss  Heminway,  decided  at  the  last 
not  to  come  with  your  wife  —  and  I'd  forgotten 
all  about  it. 

Now,  Jack,  was  it  my  fault  —  the  mistake? 
And  am  I  to  blame  if  I  don't  look  married?  I 


THE     COCOON  27 

didn't  make  my  profile.  Of  course,  nothing 
serious  is  happening  —  but  be  still.  Don't 
wriggle.  And  don't  rush  a  letter  down  here  in- 
quiring about  your  "  wife  "  ?  I  may  ask  you  to 
do  it,  when  the  time  is  ripe  —  but  not  yet. 
Trust  things  to  me. 

There  are  already  two  men  in  the  case,  three, 
I  mean,  for  of  course  you  are  always  in  it 
with  me.  Two  besides.  But  remember,  there's 
safety  in  numbers, 

Goodnight,  dear, 

My  head  is  on  your  arm, 

BLESSY. 

Written  in  Diary,  March  1st. 
Dear  old  Book  of  my  Heart: 

Five  years  and  three  weeks  have  passed  since 
your  last  date,  just  before  my  wedding.  Five 
years!  And  I've  never  needed  you  since  —  not 
until  now  and  I  don't  need  you  yet ;  but  I  shall. 
So  I'd  better  reopen  my  account  with  you,  now 
while  I'm  calm,  so  that  I  can  rush  in  on  short 
notice  and  have  heartthrobs  charged  to  my  ac- 
count on  your  trusting  pages  instead  of  send- 


28  THECOCOON 

ing  everything  home  to  dear,  patient,  long-suf- 
fering Jack. 

I  know  already  from  the  way  things  are  going 
that  I'll  soon  need  some  such  outlet,  just  as  in 
the  old  turbulent  days  of  our  courtship  when 
you  and  I  and  no  one  else  but  God  knew  how 
utterly  wretched  I  used  to  get,  doubting  Jack's 
love,  mainly.  What  a  simpleton  I  was,  to  be 
sure !  But  how  can  a  woman  know  a  man  until 
she's  married  to  him?  I've  been  with  Jack  now 
steadily,  summer  and  winter;  here,  there  and 
everywhere ;  in  sickness  and  in  health ;  in  season 
and  out  of  season ;  and  I've  never  needed  another 
confidant  and  don't  need  any  now,  excepting 
for  his  protection,  darling  husband  that  he  is. 

But  I  know  myself  and  I  know  there  are  sure 
to  be  little  things  I  oughtn't  to  bother  him  about 
at  long  range  and  yet  they'll  be  things  I'll  never 
be  able  to  cast  aside  without  a  spark  of  sympa- 
thy —  and  just  the  telling  them  out  to  you  will 
help  us  all  round.  It'll  even  warm  you  up, 
little  Book,  after  all  these  years  of  cooling,  al- 
though one  would  think  the  ardour  of  those 
early  red-hot  pages,  many  even  blurred  with 


THECOCOON  29 

scalding  tears,  might  have  been  counted  on  as  a 
perpetual  guard  against  chill. 

I  shall  have  no  more  anguish  to  bring  your 
dear  pages  now,  thank  God,  for  the  day  of  doubts 
and  misgivings  is  past.  How  often  I've  laughed 
since  at  my  crazy  outpouring  to  you  on  that 
silly  occasion  when  he  ("  he  "  is  always  Jack,  of 
course)  when  he,  I  say,  took  Lydia  Lawrence 
home  from  the  barn  dance  and  I  engaged  my- 
self to  Don  Macintosh,  in  rage  and  spite,  that 
same  night  on  my  way  home  to  Aunt  Helen's 
where  I  was  staying.  Oh,  how  I  messed  you  all 
up,  page  after  page,  before  I  got  out  of  that 
tangle ! 

No,  this  won't  be  anything  like  that,  surely. 
I  believe  I'm  really  engaging  you  for  my  dis- 
couragements, not  one  of  which  must  go  to  Jack 
again.  I'll  tell  him  the  things  that  count  and 
any  foolishness  which  would  seem  horrible  un- 
less he  knew  it,  like  my  playing  on  the  roof.  If 
I'd  had  you,  I'd  never  have  railed  against  this 
place  to  him  as  I  did  the  other  day  and  I  mean 
never  to  do  so  again.  I  know  he  hates  our  dear 
little  home  without  me  there ;  but  he  never  says 


30  THE     COCOON 

so  now,  though  he  wanted  to  break  np  and  go  to 
a  hotel  to  live  till  I'd  served  this  sentence  —  but 
I  wouldn't  let  him. 

I  think  his  own  evening  lamp  and  his  books 
and  papers  —  and  the  phonograph  if  he's  lone- 
some—  make  a  more  wholesome  and  sane  en- 
vironment for  a  man  with  a  sick  wife  than  the 
rotunda  of  a  hotel  with  its  vulgar  dress  parade 
—  and  Jack  thinks  so  too,  now. 

There  are  fleas  in  this  jail,  Bookie!  Now, 
that's  a  thing  I'll  never  tell  Jack,  for  I  know  it 
would  worry  him.  I  caught  one  day  before  yes- 
terday and  missed  about  seventy,  I  should  say, 
before  I  caught  this  one  and  the  rest  must  have 
got  scared  and  hopped  off,  for  I  didn't  feel  them 
again.  They  blow  over  from  the  Downer  ken- 
nels on  Frog  Island,  whenever  a  strong  wind 
favours  them,  so  they  are  high-class  fleas  with 
the  blood  of  the  best  registered  hounds  in  their 
veins,  which  is  small  comfort  to  us  roofers  when 
they  drop  in  on  us. 

No,  he'll  never  know  about  the  fleas  unless  he 
sneaks  in  and  confers  with  you  again.  That's 
the  one  unworthy  thing  I've  known  Jack  Hemin- 
way  to  do  in  these  five  years  —  to  run  across  you 


THE     COCOON  31 

looking  in  my  bureau  drawer  for  his  mileage- 
ticket  and  to  gloat  over  my  last  heart-throb  — 
and  then  to  make  amends  by  giving  me  those 
pearls.  I've  noticed  very  often,  Book  of  my 
Heart,  that  untimely  gifts  of  gems  are  apt  to 
represent  a  husband's  shortcomings  —  but  one 
little  thing  like  that  in  five  years  and  three 
weeks  isn't  a  bad  record  for  my  Jack  —  and  then 
I  have  the  pearls. 

The  time  he  brought  me  that  emerald  pen- 
dant just  out  of  a  clear  sky,  no  birthday  or  any- 
thing, I  looked  around  to  see  what  he'd  been  up 
to,  but  he  was  so  dear  and  the  emeralds  so  be- 
coming that  I  grew  ashamed  and  forgot  all 
about  it. 

Seafair,  Va.,  March  2nd. 

(And  the  sea  roaring.) 
Dearest  Jack: 

Perhaps  an  occasional  conventional  beginning 
may  be  a  good  thing,  just  as  we  dress  for  dinner 
once  in  a  while  when  we're  camping  in  the 
mountains  so  the  chipmunks  will  know  what 
class  of  people  they  are  entertaining. 

.Well,  guess  who  they  are,  Dear  —  the  two 


32  THECOCOON 

men?  But  how  could  you,  not  knowing  any- 
body here?  So  I'll  up  and  'fess.  One  is  an 
Englishman,  Canadian,  that  is,  and  a  gentleman ; 
and  the  other—?  the  BKIGAND  — who  isn't 
a  brigand  at  all.  I  take  delight  in  writing  him 
so,  though.  It  makes  things  go  faster. 

The  Canadian  —  I  said  he  was  a  gentleman, 
and  after  that  he's  a  poet  ~nd  a  soldier,  that  is 
to  say,  he  writes  delightful  verse  and  reads  it 
divinely  —  to  your  "  sister  "  on  the  roof  —  and, 
for  the  soldier  part,  he's  an  ex-Something-or- 
other  of  the  English  army.  Personally,  he's  a 
widower  (I  suspect)  and  pompous  —  or,  no,  not 
at  all  pompous  for  an  Englishman  —  and  his 
favourite  pastime,  when  not  reading  to  her,  is 
to  inspect  your  sister  covertly  from  behind  his 
book. 

He  is  tall,  square-shouldered,  spare  and  grace- 
ful, with  that  fine  masculinity  which  seems  to 
despise  personality  even  while  engaged  in  its 
highest  expression;  and  he  is  so  unequivocally 
well  bred  that  one  feels  a  sort  of  protection  in 
his  presence.  Indeed,  you  see  he  resembles  you, 
Dear,  in  several  respects  besides  his  taste  in 
women. 


THE     COCOON  33 

The  Brigand  is,  of  course  you'll  agree,  utterly 
unlike  him  in  these  qualities,  though  a  good  sort, 
I'll  venture.  He  is  a  tireless  talker  in  about 
s'teen  queer  lingos,  largely  Pacific  slope  slang, 
I  heard  a  man  say,  and  he  can  rattle  pidgin 
English  so  fast  that,  if  you  shut  your  eyes,  you'd 
expect  on  opening  them  to  see  a  pigtailed  Mon- 
golian standing  before  you.  As  to  the  polite 
languages,  I  don't  know.  I  should  say  he'd 
picked  up  all  he  knows  chiefly  —  well,  not  from 
books. 

When  a  muffled  voice  asked  this  morning  on 
the  roof  what  we  thought  of  him  I  answered 
quickly  from  under  cover,  "  I  should  say  he's 
a  promoter  from  Everywhere,"  which  brought 
down  the  house,  otherwise,  shook  the  cocoons. 

He  has  a  Chicago  accent,  owns  a  banana 
plantation,  edits  a  Free-thought  paper,  has  been 
confirmed  in  the  Episcopal  Church,  was  later 
ordained  to  the  Campbellite  ministry,  then  be- 
gan to  dabble  in  Buddhism  and  now  boasts  Pan- 
theistic leanings ;  and  from  his  fluent  pronounce- 
ments upon  Free  Trade  and  Single  Tax,  not  to 
say  Home  Rule  and  Universal  Peace,  one  comes 
to  think  of  him  as  a  sort  of  composite. 


34  THE     COCOON 

I  haven't  "  met  him  "  exactly.  Of  course,  we 
all  nod  to  each  other  in  passing.  It  seems  to 
be  a  sort  of  "  misery  loves  company  "  etiquette. 
And  yet,  although  she  has  but  this  negligible 
acquaintance  with  him,  the  Brigand  is  pursuing 
your  sister,  all  the  same,  and  a  huge,  swarthy 
girl  from  Butte,  Montana,  is  pursuing  him.  I 
hate  to  say  a  thing  like  that  about  any  woman, 
but  truth  is  truth.  She  is  interesting  picto- 
rially;  not  otherwise.  She  wears  long,  black 
braids  down  her  back,  tied  with  red  bows,  and 
strides  like  an  Amazon,  in  the  wake  of  the 
Brigand. 

She's  in  for  somnambulism  and  I'm  afraid  of 
her.  She  plays  the  flute,  which  is  incongruous. 
She  even  plays  it  in  her  sleep,  would  you  believe 
it?  Fortunately  it  is  a  soft-toned  flute,  but  any 
flute  playing  irresponsibly  up  and  down  the 
corridors  at  midnight  is  trying  to  nervous 
patients.  I  don't  like  it  particularly,  myself, 
and  I  find  it  bothers  me  almost  more  when  it 
isn't  playing  than  when  it  is.  I've  been  kept 
awake  quite  a  little,  really,  just  dreading  that 
imminent  flute  playing  outside  my  door  at  all 


THECOCOON  35 

hours  and  picturing  to  myself  the  wide-open, 
unseeing  eyes  of  the  somnambulist. 
Kemember  Edward  Lear's  limerick? 

"  There  was  once  a  young  lady  of  Butte 
Who  played  on  a  silver-gilt  flute." 

Well,  here  she  is,  in  life,  though  I  never 
thought  of  her  till  this  minute.  Our  poor  player 
is  pathetic  enough.  She  carries  that  flute  where- 
ever  she  goes.  They  did  try  to  wrest  it  from  her, 
tactfully,  one  night,  but  it  waked  her  and  she 
threatened  to  leave,  which,  of  course,  they 
wouldn't  hear  to,  as  she  has  the  most  expensive 
suite  on  the  floor. 

They  do  say  that  she  played  at  the  Brigand's 
door,  one  midnight,  in  the  absence  of  the  patrol- 
nurse  who  had  gone  to  answer  a  bell;  but  they 
can't  suspect  her  of  anything  underhand  when 
she  plays  the  flute  and  is  sound  asleep  besides. 

The  things  she  plays  sleeping  are  the  weird- 
est, like  the  wails  of  a  lost  soul.  I'm  telling 
you  about  this  girl  —  oh,  yes,  she's  a  girl  any- 
where between  thirty-nine  and  forty,  but  dis- 
tinctly girlish,  more's  the  pity  —  because  the 


36  THECOCOON 

patrol  says  she  told  her  that  the  Brigand  was  her 
fiance". 

She  sand-sops  on  the  beach  and  when  I  look 
down  upon  her,  her  red  bow  stands  out  among 
the  soppers  like  a  beacon.  By  the  wray,  sand- 
soppiug  is  especially  recommended  for  insomnia, 
and  I  can  see  how  it  might  be  lulling. 

The  patients  are  undressed  in  little  bath- 
pavilions  and  each  has  an  attendant  who  leads 
her  or  him  out  barefoot  over  the  warm  sand  to 
the  sop-holes,  which  really  look  more  like  graves 
than  anything  else,  being  about  half  full  of  a 
sort  of  loblolly  of  hot-ish  wet  salt  sand.  As  the 
patient  is  laid  in  place,  the  sop-robe,  which  I 
find  is  popularly  called  a  shroud  and  opens  at 
the  back,  is  pulled  away  and  fresh  covering  of 
sand  heaped  over  him  until  the  entire  garment 
is  freed,  and  he  lies  snugly  imbedded.  There 
are  some,  I  know,  who  insist  upon  a  sleeve  and 
free  arms  and  who  take  a  book  along,  but  sleep 
soon  overtakes  them;  and  the  attendants  have 
very  watchfully  to  guard  against  their  sleeping 
into  rapidly  rising  tides,  for  it  has  happened, 
once  at  least,  that  one  found  himself  embarrass- 


THE     COCOON  37 

ingly  undressed  by  a  single  swish  of  an  incom- 
ing wave,  with  some  resulting  confusion. 

Talking  of  the  Butte,  she's  frightfully  unpop- 
ular, somehow,  and  so,  of  course,  I  warm  to  her. 
They  never  told  her  about  her  playing  at  the 
Brigand's  door;  but  of  course  he  knows  it  and 
he  runs  for  his  life  when  she  looms  in  sight. 

Well,  these  are  the  dramatis  personae  of  my 
little  comedy,  up  to  date  —  these  with  the  usual 
lot  of  subordinates,  soldiers,  chorus-girls,  etc.,  in 
this  case  trained  nurses,  doctors,  tray-boys  and, 
of  course,  worms  —  mainly  worms.  All  the 
stars  are  worms,  you  understand. 

There's  an  antiquity-shop  in  the  village,  Dear, 
and  I've  found  a  perfectly  lovely  pair  of  George 
Washington  andirons,  just  iron,  but  with  a  ped- 
igree to  make  your  hair  curl.  I  haven't  bought 
them  yet,  exactly,  but  —  wad,  Dear  —  no,  WAD 
please.  You  see,  they  are  the  only  pair  and  I'm 
not  the  only  woman  of  taste  in  this  calaboose. 
We'd  never  forgive  ourselves  if  we  let  them  slip. 

Do  let  me  alone  about  that  Miss  Carter.  Of 
course,  I  intend  to  look  her  up;  but  remember, 
there  are  hundreds  of  people  here  and  she  never 


38  THE     COCOON 

shows  herself.  If  she  came  to  the  roof  or  took 
treatments  we  might  run  against  each  other. 

I  do  meet  a  few  semi-amusing  people  when  we 
are  going  around  in  our  sheets,  in  the  treatment- 
rooms,  but  the  greatest  time  is  when  we  are  only 
a  row  of  heads  poking  out  of  the  tops  of  the 
thermo-electric  cabinets.  It's  really  the  only  so- 
cial function  on  the  card,  so  necessarily  limited. 

There  are  a  lot  of  them  in  line  and  sometimes 
all  are  occupied  and,  as  the  line  curves  like  a 
crescent,  it's  sort  o'  sociable.  I  said  to  a  dis- 
tressed face  topping  the  box  next  to  mine  the 
other  day,  "Are  you  a  whole  woman,  or  just  a 
head?  I'm  only  a  head  myself  or  a  bust,  rather ! 
Everything  else  is  steamed  away  —  and  it's  a 
great  relief."  She  didn't  answer,  but,  from  the 
glance  of  alarm  she  gave  the  attendant,  I  am 
sure  she  was  glad  I  couldn't  get  out  of  my 
steamer. 

I  don't  know  whether  it's  pathological  or  only 
logical  that  these  people  should  show  no  sense 
of  humour  whatever,  but  it's  tiresome,  either 
way. 

They  say  she's  a  beauty,  that  Carter  girl,  but 
they  tap  their  foreheads  when  they  mention  her, 


THE     COCOON  39 

so  I  can't  say  I'm  thirsting  for  that  visit,  exactly 
—  but  I'm  going  —  don't  worry.  "  A  friend  of  a 
friend  of  Oglesby,"  you  say?  Of  course,  I'll  go, 
Dear. 

And  remember,  WAD,  and  as  I'm  not  tele- 
graphing it,  there'll  be  no  time  to  spare.  Georgie 
will  be  divine,  holding  our  logs,  while  Martha 
smiles  on  him  from  the  screen. 

March  5th,  or  6th. 

(Sunshine  tempered  by  a  mackerel  sky 
and  cocoonery  in  fine  form.) 

I'm  having  fun! 

It's  intrigue,  Jack,  and  your  "  child  wife  "  is 
the  conspirator.  I've  already  explained  that 
everybody  avoids  the  Butte  (Do  let  me  write  her 
thus,  henceforth.  I  started  to  spell  it  "  Beaut," 
but  that  would  be  unkind.  She's  as  plain  as  a 
hippopotamus,  though  unlike). 

Also,  I've  told  you  how  she  can  always  be 
spotted  in  a  landscape  by  her  long  braids  which 
look  like  jute.  Indeed,  a  very  young  fellow  here 
who  has  one  of  those  finnikin  little  minds  that 
run  to  trivial  jokes,  took  out  his  note-book  as 
she  passed,  one  day,  remarking,  "  I'm  just  writ- 


40  THE     COCOON 

ing  down  jute  as  a  handy  rhyme  for  Butte." 

"  Yes,  and  brute  is  another/'  I  threw  back  at 
him.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  hate  underbred  per- 
sonalities. He  writes  squibs  for  humour-pages 
and  has  an  expression  of  expecting-to-be-laughed- 
at  whenever  he  opens  his  mouth  and  I  imagine 
price-tags  on  all  his  little  jokes  —  mainly  "  30c." 
I  know  he  hates  me,  but  I'm  not  worrying,  but 
I  don't  see  why  he  keeps  hanging  around.  They 
say  he  was  a  cracker-jack  reporter  before  he 
fell  ill.  He's  here  "  recuperating,"  of  course. 
Everybody  is. 

But  the  conspiracy: 

The  Brigand,  you  know,  is  an  unequivocal 
person.  He  either  loves  or  he  hates;  and  just 
as  violently  as  he  detests  the  Butte,  he  admires 
your  sister;  and,  strange  to  say,  equally  is  the 
Butte  distasteful  to  the  Canadian. 

She's  a  parlour-elocutionist,  poor  huge  thing, 
and  she  recited  one  of  the  Canadian's  poems  in 
the  chapel  here  the  other  evening  in  a  sort  of 
vaudeville  of  resident  talent,  did  it  "  with  mo- 
tions "  and  awful  flights,  and  when  she  had  done 
the  author  was  not  there.  He  had  escaped 
through  an  open  window,  into  the  night 


THE    COCOON  41 

I  had.  heard  the  poem  before  in  the  poet's 
cultured  voice,  on  the  roof,  and  even  I  suffered 
in  her  rendition.  Her  notes  were  as  the  winds 
of  March  shrieking  through  the  garden  of  the 
gods. 

But  I  keep  getting  away  from  the  conspiracy 
— and  the  fun. 

You  understand,  Dear,  the  object  of  the  co- 
coonery is  rest-in-the-open.  No  cocoon  is  sup- 
posed to  become  a  social  centre.  Well,  mine 
was  being  threatened.  It's  considered  quite 
allowable  for  a  comrade  to  stroll  along  and  stop 
for  a  word  occasionally,  unless  the  worm  is 
closely  veiled  —  and,  of  course,  excepting  in  a 
certain  "  Silent  Section  "  to  which  I  never  go. 
It's  too  deathlike. 

But  I  have  tried  to  hide  —  tried  variously. 
I've  gone  up  early  before  the  crowd  and  had 
Beauregarde  Davis  tuck  me  in  —  and  I've 
changed  my  location,  but  somehow — ? 

It's  my  hair,  Jack.  You  always  declared  it 
was  luminous  and  I  believe  you  are  right.  Cer- 
tainly, its  slightest  vagrant  strand  will  catch 
the  sunlight,  somehow.  I  often  believe  myself 
safely  hidden  in  my  bunk  and  the  first  thing  I 


42  THECOCOON 

know,  a  tall  shadow  looms  and  a  Voice  asks  if 
it  is  intruding  ("  ahsks  "  it,  in  fine  limpid  Eng- 
lish), and  I  tell  the  social  lie  universal  and  be- 
fore you  could  say  Jack  Robinson,  the  Canadian 
has  camp-stooled  himself  beside  me  and  is 
"  ahsking  my  candid  opinion "  of  an  original 
poem  which  he  "  reads "  from  an  imaginary 
book,  or  regaling  me  with  anecdotes  of  well 
known  personages,  none  of  whom  has  he  pro- 
fessed to  know,  which  is  very  modest  of  him.  Of 
course,  I  like  it.  Who  wouldn't  —  and  he  the 
most  attractive  man  here? 

Besides,  he  is,  in  some  occult  way,  appealing. 
I  can't  quite  describe  it.  It's  the  intangible 
something  that  made  me  guess  him  to  be  a 
widower.  Sometimes  I  suspect  that  he  has  a 
secret  sorrow  and  when  he  gets  pretty  close,  as 
in  reciting  some  delicate  passage  with  telling 
effect,  I  feel  half  frightened  lest  he  should  sud- 
denly entrust  me  with  some  awful  confidence.  I 
don't  mean  a  declaration.  That  would  be  un- 
speakable and  would  instantly  quash  all  these 
merriment  proceedings,  for,  of  course,  in  such  a 
calamity,  I'd  have  to  reveal  myself  in  my  true 
colours. 


THE     COCOON  43 

As  things  are  now,  my  position  is  wholly  neg- 
ative and  I've  done  nothing.  They  take  me 
for  a  girl  and  I  just  drift  along  —  and  I'm  tell- 
ing the  only  person  who  would  have  a  right  to 
object.  But,  of  course,  the  Canadian  will  never 
do  anything  impulsive  or  ill-advised  —  not  a 
gentleman  of  English  blood;  and  taking  him  by 
and  large,  he  contributes  greatly  to  my  semi- 
contentment  here. 

All  of  which,  though  very  pleasant,  isn't  ex- 
actly restful,  you'll  agree,  and  I'm  doing  this  co- 
coon stunt  to  get  well  and  strong  —  doing  it  for 
you,  Beloved,  and  for  nations  yet  unborn,  if 
the  gods  are  kind,  and  I  owe  it  to  you  and  to 
them  to  do  it  as  expeditiously  as  possible.  You 
understand,  don't  you,  Dear? 

And  isn't  it  great  that  there's  nothing  wrong 
with  me  but  tire  —  just  tire?  —  and  "With  rest 
and  sane  living"  there's  hope  for  everything. 
I'm  so  glad  we  had  this  all  threshed  out  before 
I  came  to  this  place  so  I  don't  have  to  take  any- 
body into  my  confidence,  and  I  tell  you,  Jacky 
dear,  this  girl  business  has  its  advantages.  It's 
the  first  time  in  five  years  when  I've  been  among 
strangers  over-night  that  some  one  haen't  asked 


44  THECOCOON 

me  if  I  had  any  children.  I  suppose  it  would 
be  expecting  too  much  to  have  the  world  realise 
how  this  question  stabs  the  childless  woman. 

And  it  has  other  advantages,  too,  this  being 
a  girl  again  —  other  advantages  besides  the 
questionable  one  of  the  personal  tribute  of  the 
detached  male.  Of  course  I  realise  I'm  declin- 
ing the  open  gate  for  these  diverting  byways, 
but  I'm  escaping  all  the  same. 

I  notice  that  the  women  exchange  glances  and 
edit  their  recitals  about  their  surgical  experi- 
ences when  I  appear,  and  one  good  woman  even 
remarked  in  a  stage  whisper  quite  in  my  hear- 
ing, "  Sh !  She's  only  an  innocent  girl  an'  I 
know  I  wouldn't  thank  anybody  for  telling  my 
daughter  such  things.  I  think  the  less  a  girl 
knows  about  life  the  better  for  her.  She  ain't 
half  so  liable  to  turn  against  it." 

"  That's  just  wrhat  I  always  say,"  agreed  her 
neighbour.  "  I  know  when  I  was  married,  I 
didn't  know  a  thing.  Why,  I  was  'most  as  tall 
as  my  mother  when  I  used  to  slip  out  into  the 
cabbage-patch  and  search  any  suspiciously  big 
heads  to  see  if  I  could  find  any  trace  of  the 
babies,  I  was  that  pure-minded  —  and  it  was 


THE     COCOON  45 

just  as  well.  Now  they  tell  me  the  girls  and 
young  men  go  together  to  eugenic  play-acting 
and  lectures.  I  can't  help  wondering  what 
they'll  have  to  talk  about  after  they  get  married. 
They'll  discuss  books  then,  I  reckon." 

"  Yes,  and  that  ain't  the  worst  of  it,"  sighed 
the  other,  shifting  an  ice-bag  on  her  person  as 
she  spoke,  "  that  ain't  the  worst  of  it.  They  say 
the  girls  are  losing  interest,  now  everything  is 
explained.  I  suppose  if  I'd  known  as  much  be- 
forehand as  I  do  now,  I  wouldn't  be  holding  ice- 
bags  over  surgeon's  stitches  the  way  I  am  to- 
day. I'd  've  had  the  foresight  to  keep  clear  of 
it  —  and  yet,  taking  it  all  in  all,  I'm  glad  I 
didn't  know  any  better,  for  I've  got  nice  children 
if  I  do  say  it;  but  if  things  keep  on  the  way 
they're  going,  we'll  have  a  race  of  old  maids,  I 
suppose." 

This  was  down  on  the  beach  porch,  and  wrhen 
presently  the  speakers  went  in,  a  superior  voice 
threw  out  from  behind  a  book :  "  Where  do  you 
suppose  those  ladies  are  from?  "  and  instantly  a 
mannish  chirp  from  a  nest  of  quilts  in  a  steamer- 
chair  replied: 

"  Oh,  they're  from  Bungaloton  down  in  Bun- 


46  THE     COCOON 

galocust  County  where  they  cultivate  Bunga- 
lotus  flowers  for  eastern  bungalos."  And  push- 
ing back  the  covers,  the  little  joke-man  emerged 
and  tripped  away,  looking  like  a  picked  chicken. 
You  know  he's  lost  his  hair.  He  is  funny! 

But  oh,  Jack,  isn't  the  average  American  a  di- 
verting creature !  Living  in  New  York  as  we  do, 
with  picked  minds  for  daily  social  fare,  and  go- 
ing to  hear  the  questions  of  the  hour  threshed 
out  by  the  picked  of  the  picked  and  presented 
coherently,  it  is  delicious  to  come  across  the  un- 
tutored play  of  thought  in  the  remote  fringes  of 
progress. 

As  I  lay  in  my  bunk,  reflecting  on  this  na'ive 
discussion,  I  sent  up  a  little  prayer  and  thanks- 
giving, too,  on  our  account,  yours  and  mine. 
Isn't  it  a  blessing  to  know  that  we  are  eugen- 
ically  sound,  you  and  I,  so  we  needn't  fear  when 
we  know  he  or  she  is  on  the  way  to  us  —  or 
they!  How  I'd  love  for  it  to  be  they!  Two 
you's  or  two  me's  or  one  of  each  of  us ! 

Oh,  if  only  this  may  be  our  reward  for  this 
incarceration!  My  prospective  wellness  for  its 
own  sake  pales  before  this  looming  joy.  Think 
of  longing  to  be  well,  just  to  be  strong  enough  to 


THECOCOON  47 

assume  the  master  pain,  Dearest  —  but  oh,  the 
master  reward! 

You  know  how  I  always  longed  for  a  boy  — 
or  boys  —  but  I  want  to  tell  you  now  that  I'm 
quite  willing  to  have  anything  you  want,  even 
just  one  girl  (one  at  a  time,  I  mean) ;  but  don't 
require  me  to  bequeath  the  poor  little  thing  my 
yellow  hair.  I  know  whereof  I  speak  and  yel- 
low hair  on  the  head  of  an  even  semi-serious 
woman  with  a  suspicion  of  an  intellect  is  a  fear- 
ful handicap.  I'm  feeling  it  right  now,  in  this 
warfare. 

If,  for  instance,  I  were  a  dark-haired,  demure 
woman  with  a  profile  like  Dante  or  George  Eliot 
or  Seneca,  I  could  lie  out  in  my  cocoon  and  take 
all  the  benefactions  of  the  roof  without  inter- 
ruption; or  if  my  soul  matched  my  giddy  little 
head  throughout  (I  don't  deny  that  even  it  has 
its  yellow-haired  side)  things  would  be  simpli- 
fied and  I'd  take  the  roofs  chances  of  fun  with- 
out a  qualm. 

But  to  return  to  more  worthy  thought  —  I'm 
reading  up  on  eugenics  like  mad.  Got  the  book 
out  o'  the  library  here.  Maybe  when  the  time 
comes  for  us,  we'll  have  arrived  at  something 


48  THE     COCOON 

definite,  so  that  I  can  say  to  you,  in  effect,  "  If 
you'll  keep  your  hands  off  my  boy,  I'll  promise 
not  to  interfere  with  your  girl,"  which  will  mean 
that  I  can  have  my  dark-haired,  high-fore- 
headed,  intellectual  little  son,  just  like  you  — 
and  won't  it  be  too  cunning  if  he's  just  near- 
sighted enough  to  have  to  wear  your  specs?  You 
know,  dear,  near-sight  in  youth  means  normal 
vision  at  the  other  end,  when  gifts  are  sparse 
and  precious,  so  there's  no  harm  in  wishing  our 
Junior  to  have  your  dear  eyes  to  begin  with. 

Oh,  Jack,  when  I  think  of  him,  I  can  hardly 
wait;  and  even  if  you  insist  on  thinking  my 
trivial  hair  onto  his  innocent  head,  I'll  not  say  a 
word.  Isn't  it  great  fun  to  blame  you  if  he  in- 
herits my  hair?  Oh,  Jack! 

But  talking  about  the  children,  Jack,  a  new 
thought  has  come  to  me  here,  out  of  the  blue,  a 
great  thought.  You  see,  with  no  invitations  or 
telephones  or  anything  to  break  the  monotony, 
whenever  I'm  not  doing  anything  formal,  I'm 
thinking  —  and  most  of  all,  I  think  of  the  home, 
our  dear  home  in  which  we  have  realised  so 
much  of  joy,  and  which  has  yet,  in  some  intangi- 


THE     COCOON  49 

ble  way,  failed  of  the  full  satisfaction  it  prom- 
ised. 

And  from  that  I  began  to  consider  other 
homes,  as  they  appear,  modest  homes  chiefly, 
looking  for  joy-signs,  and  then,  getting  down  and 
down  in  the  scale,  I  seemed  to  come  to  great 
places  where  numbers  of  people  lived  together 
only  because  there  seemed  no  other  way,  until  I 
found  myself  standing  at  the  door  of  an  orphan 
asylum. 

I  needn't  tell  you  I  hadn't  sought  the  asylum. 
To  me  they  are  dreadful  places.  Mother  used 
to  be  on  the  Board  of  Lady  Managers  of  a  lovely 
one  when  I  was  little,  a  great  stone  mansion  set 
in  grounds,  with  gardeners,  and  flower-beds  in 
long  rows  and  fancy  shapes  —  and  there  were 
"modern  improvements,"  I  remember,  artificial 
aeration  and  cooking  and  sewing  classes,  and 
what  they  had  the  nerve  to  call  "  family  pray- 
ers "  because  all  the  little  uniformed  orphans 
used  to  shout  "  Amen ! "  as  they  rose  from  their 
knees  and  filed  out  in  procession,  looking  so  seri- 
ous and  weak-eyed  and  clean. 

Mother  used  to  take  me  with  her  on  Board 


50 

days,  sometimes,  and  I  remember  the  girls  sit- 
ting on  benches  in  the  yard  crocheting  yards 
and  yards  of  cotton  lace  of  the  same  pattern, 
and  sometimes  mother  would  buy  it  and  have  it 
sewed  on  my  pantalettes,  and  whenever  I  wore 
them,  I'd  seem  to  see  the  pale  girls  in  rows  at 
work,  sometimes  measuring  their  lace,  one  with 
another,  and  talking  a  little  lower  than  the  chil- 
dren I  knew  talked  when  they  were  together. 

I  remember  even  the  baby  ward  as  a  depress- 
ing place  —  each  baby  tagged  with  its  name  and 
number  —  and  one  day  when  I  was  there  I 
begged  to  hold  one  of  the  babies  and  the  nursery 
matron  put  a  big-eyed,  serious  little  thing  in  my 
eager  twelve-year-old  arms  and  I  began  to  love 
and  to  hug  it  as  we  always  had  done  our  home 
babies. 

At  first,  the  little  thing  braced  itself  against 
my  chest  and  eyed  me  wonderingly  —  but  pres- 
ently, while  I  caressed  it,  it  flung  its  thin  arms 
around  my  neck  with  a  little  cry  and  nearly 
choked  me  to  death  and  wouldn't  let  me  go  till 
the  matron  cautiously  forced  its  grip. 

I  was  crying,  too,  when  finally  she  took  it 
from  me,  for  I  was  a  sensitive  little  creature  and 


51 

I  suppose,  even  then,  strongly  maternal.  And  I 
am  the  same  yet,  Jack.  Why,  half  my  joy  in 
life  now  is  in  mothering  you  when  you  have 
colds  and  things;  and  no  one  will  ever  know 
what  satisfaction  I  took  in  your  bone-felon, 
Jack. 

It  gave  me  my  first  chance  to  lose  sleep  on 
your  account,  and  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  the 
life  of  a  woman  is  never  full  until  she  has  some- 
thing to  lose  sleep  over  —  once  in  awhile  — 
something  she  loves.  Not  that  I'd  have  you  ever 
get  another  bone-felon,  for  anything  on  earth; 
but  really,  when  you  got  better  of  that,  and,  as 
Bridget  would  say,  "middlin'  independent,"  I 
was  lost  for  a  while. 

Then,  you  remember,  you  got  the  canary,  and 
we  amused  ourselves  with  his  notes  and  his  daily 
needs  for  a  while.  But  he  was  a  bachelor  bird 
and  he  soon  became  monotonous,  until  the  day 
God  sent  me  enlightenment  and  I  knew  that  the 
brave  little  fellow  was  singing  his  heart  out  to 
some  remote,  abstract  mate,  and  I  went  out  and 
brought  home  that  cage  of  lady  birds  and  let 
him  choose  his  partner  and  we  started  them  in 
housekeeping. 


52  THE     COCOON 

And  then  came  the  nest-making  and  watching 
—  then  the  stirring  and  the  joy  of  the  little  ones. 
Oh,  Jack,  it's  the  way  of  life !  The  only  way  to 
fulness  of  joy!  The  young  birds  in  the  nest! 
The  children,  the  children! 

In  my  study  of  homes,  joy  seemed  to  follow 
the  perambulator.  Children's  voices  singing  un- 
der trees.  The  playing  of  "  scales  "  on  cracked 
pianos.  A  rain-washed  doll  lying  inside  a  small 
gate  —  joy-signs,  all. 

Only  when  I  got  to  the  imposing  portal  of  the 
big  house  where  the  unclaimed  or  unwanted 
were  collected,  unparented  and  unloved ;  only  in 
the  affluent,  poor,  crowded,  lonely  asylum  were 
the  joy-notes  all  missing.  Even  when  the  young 
things  took  out  their  second-hand  toys  to  play 
(permission  accorded  with  a  glance  at  the  clock 
by  a  perfectly  proper  starched  person  in  charge) 
I  noticed  that  there  was  slight  interest  shown 
in  them.  The  children  all  seemed  to  have  their 
eyes  on  the  clock,  too,  for  putting-away  time. 

Do  I  seem  to  be  turning  ultra-sentimental  — 
I  who  am  so  frivolous  generally?  I  am  light 
and  volatile,  Dear,  but  maybe  it's  mainly  on  the 
surface. 


THE    COCOON  53 

Frivolity  blooms  in  my  hair,  I  know,  and 
dances  in  my  feet  and  rings  in  my  laughter,  but 
my  heart  is  in  the  right  place,  Dear,  and  there 
are  times  when  it  suffers  and  is  lonely  over 
things  which  my  head  and  my  feet  and  my  voice 
ought  to  be  able  to  help. 

"  What  am  I  driving  at? "  I'm  coming  to 
that,  now. 

It's  adoption,  Jack.  To  keep  waiting,  year 
after  year,  until  God  in  His  own  good  time  may 
or  may  not  give  us  a  child  fashioned  after  our 
own  selfish  pattern,  seems  to  me  to  be  behaving 
like  selfish  pigs  —  and  the  orphan  asylums  filled 
to  overflowing  with  little  tagged,  love-needing 
babies,  already  born  —  babies  who  don't  under- 
stand a  caress  till  they  are  taught. 

Don't  you  think  maybe  we've  thought  of  the 
children  just  for  our  own  sakes,  Dear?  I've 
often  wondered  whatever  became  of  the  baby 
who  clung  to  my  neck  that  time.  Mother  never 
allowed  me  to  go  to  the  baby-ward  again,  be- 
cause I  talked  in  my  sleep  that  night. 

Think  of  our  home,  Jack,  and  our  hearts  and 
all  the  warm  room  in  them !  Maybe  we've  been 
a  wee  bit  too  worldly,  you  and  I  —  not  that  I'm 


54  THE     COCOON 

half  ready  to  turn  ultra-pious.  I'm  not  that 
sort.  But  suppose  we  keep  our  eyes  and  hearts 
open  for  the  little  one  we  so  need  and  who  needs 
us.  We'll  be  sure  to  find  it  —  or  even  them,  in 
time,  if  our  hearts  are  wide  open. 

Miss  Penny  Perkins  told  me  last  winter  that 
in  her  settlement  work  she  sometimes  comes 
across  darling  little  cherubs  which  she  has  to 
"place,"  and  she  is  always  sorry  when  she  is 
obliged  to  send  them  to  the  big  mansions  with 
the  long  rows  of  little  white  beds. 

Think  it  over,  Dear,  and  don't  answer  till  you 
are  good  and  ready.  Of  course,  our  own,  if 
Heaven  be  so  good,  will  come  along,  just  the 
same,  and  have  something  to  inherit  beyond  self- 
ishness. 

We'll  tell  him  or  her  —  I'd  just  as  lief  have  it 
a  little  girl,  first;  you  always  wanted  a  girl,  and 
I'm  not  keen  about  a  boy  till  there's  some  chance 
for  him  to  take  after  you  —  so  we  can  tell  her, 
I  say,  that  she's  "  adopted,"  and  give  her  to  un- 
derstand that  adoption  is  a  high  honour  and 
means  that  she  was  "  chosen  " —  and  for  love  of 
us  all  —  and  we  can  train  her  to  be  a  good  older 
sister  —  Oh,  Jack!  —  Oh,  I'm  sure  we'll  be  do- 


THE     COCOON  55 

ing  right,  and  happiness  will  flow  in  to  us  as 
a  gift  of  Heaven,  as  it  always  does  when  we  for- 
get all  about  it  and  get  busy  doing  something 
worth  while. 

I  feel  ever  so  much  better,  now  it's  all  out, 
Dear.  I  fancy  it  won't  attract  you  much,  at 
first,  but  once  you  let  the  thought  in,  it  grows 
on  you.  You  see,  for  one  thing,  taking  the  self- 
ish side,  there's  surety  in  it.  We  know  we  can 
have  our  pick  of  adoptable  babies  —  and  we  can 
begin  to  get  ready  at  once.  And  don't  let's  tell 
a  soul ;  not  even  your  sister  Laura. 

We'll  find  the  baby  —  I'll  go  reconnoitering 
first,  then  I'll  call  you  in  and  we'll  select  to- 
gether—  and  I'll  fit  her  out  in  dinky  little 
clothes,  and,  if  necessary,  we'll  even  take  her 
away  for  a  little  trip  to  get  her  chubby  and 
strong  before  we  invite  the  relations  in. 

Oh,  Jack,  when  I  think  of  it,  and  how  near  it 
may  be,  I  can  hardly  wait  to  get  out  of  this 
place.  But,  of  course,  I  must  get  especially 
well  for  all  these  kinds  of  motherhood.  And 
you'll  have  to  hurry  and  make  money,  for  they 
say  the  cost  of  a  motor-car  isn't  in  it  with  the 
modern  perambulator  and  all  it  means. 


56  THE     COCOON 

Buy  a  Montessori  book,  right  off,  Jack,  and 
let's  study  it  up.  We'll  give  the  little  thing  the 
best  there  is  in  life,  if  we  know  how. 

But  dear,  dear!  Where  did  I  leave  off?  Oh, 
yes.  I  was  telling  you  about  the  Canadian  and 
the  roof  comedy  when  I  got  off  on  the  subject  of 
the  children  —  and  that's  always  a  labyrinth  in 
which  I'm  lost. 

But  listen,  now,  Jack  —  and  follow  me  closely, 
for  I  need  your  support  —  and  your  sympathy. 
Realise  the  situation.  If  it  isn't  the  Canadian, 
whose  name,  by  the  way,  is  Archibald  La  Rue, 
followed  by  an  alphabet  —  some  habitant  blood 
there,  I  suspect  —  I  say,  if  it  isn't  he,  it's  some- 
body else.  Several  of  the  youngish  M.D.'s  have 
a  way  of  coming,  especially  an  awfully  nice  fel- 
low called  Welborn  and  conspicuously  unmar- 
ried, somehow.  Well,  they  just  stroll  along  and 
chat  a  moment,  generally  making  it  known  that 
they  want  to  make  sure  I  am  comfy,  don't  you 
know? 

The  Bandit  —  Brigand,  I  mean  to  say  — 
never  comes,  and  never  will.  I  have  some  force 
of  character  left.  Occasionally  the  wee  joke- 
man  happens  along,  sparkles  like  a  firefly  and 


THE     COCOON  57 

flits.  He  is  so  short  that  standing  is  the  social 
attitude  for  him. 

Well,  now  listen:  (and  try  not  to  blame  me 
too  much;  it's  every  bit  for  you). 

I  want  to  go  home.  I  must  be  let  alone  and  I 
positively  will  not  go  into  that  dreadful  "  Silent 
Section,"  where  those  long-haired  men  and  short- 
haired  women  foregather  with  their  writing-pads 
to  let  each  other  alone.  By  the  way,  they  say 
lots  of  poets  and  other  cranks  come  here  just  to 
work.  They're  the  chief  Silent  Sectioners. 
But  I'll  protect  myself  in  the  open.  I'll  study 
the  stars  or  say  the  multiplication-table  both 
ways,  beginning  in  the  middle,  if  I  want  to. 
Since  I'm  to  be  a  worm,  I'll  turn  like  one. 

Well,  here's  what  I  did : 

I  drove  to  the  village  and  bought  one  of  those 
hideous  jute  braids  such  as  those  with  which  our 
poor  negro  women  disfigure  their  heads,  and  I 
tied  a  huge  red  bow  on  the  end  of  it,  exactly  like 
the  Butte's  —  got  early  into  my  cot  and,  giv- 
ing Beauregarde  Davis  time  to  get  busy  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  roof,  I  watched  my  chance 
and  slipped  the  braid  out  over  my  pillow,  pulled 
in  my  head  and  went  to  sleep. 


58  THECOCOON 

It  was  my  best  day.     Not  a  soul  came. 

For  three  consecutive  forenoons  I  worked  this 
trick,  with  slight  variations  —  three  blissful 
mornings.  But  yesterday  —  ah,  woe  is  me! 
While  I  lay,  fairly  soaking  rest  and  giggling  in 
my  soul  over  it,  I  was  suddenly  roused  by  a  fa- 
miliar tread  and  opened  my  eyes  to  see  through 
my  veil  whom  but  the  Canadian,  stopping  short 
in  his  walk  and  looking  from  my  cot  to  another 
across  the  roof  from  which  the  Butte  herself  was 
rising ! 

Of  course,  the  game's  up.  I  lay  breathless 
and  waited,  but  not  for  long.  Before  I  could 
still  my  thumping  heart,  the  Brigand  loomed,  ap- 
proached gingerly,  looked  both  ways  —  and 
snorted.  (He  hasn't  the  breeding  of  the  Cana- 
dian. ) 

Then  the  two  men  went  their  separate  ways. 
They  are  not  friends.  And,  by  the  way,  I  was 
right.  The  Brigand  is  a  promoter  —  and  from 
about  everywhere.  He  is  said  to  be  at  this  mo- 
ment dickering  with  old  Dr.  Jacques  for  this  sea- 
front,  either  with  or  without  the  Sanitarium. 

It  seems  he  represents  "  Eastern  Capital  "  and 
his  Company  wants  to  establish  an  "Amphibi- 


THECOCOON  59 

ous  Motor"  plant,  and  the  exceptional  sea-and- 
sky  space  attract  them  here,  with  the  further 
advantage  of  a  deep  channel  near  shore,  so  that 
their  "  Amphibs "  may  plunge  from  aerial 
heights,  diving  like  sea-gulls. 

Won't  it  be  fun  for  the  patients,  if  they  build 
it  next  door,  so  to  speak?  The  Doctor  owns  a 
mile  or  so  of  frontage  here  —  and  backage,  too, 
for  that  matter.  They  say  there's  any  kind  of 
mine  one  might  ask  for  on  his  land,  and  so  it  be- 
hooves him  to  sell  any  frontage  he  can  spare  to 
finance  the  mines.  I'm  trying  to  talk  business, 
Dear.  I  made  all  that  out  of  my  own  head 
about  "  financing  "  and  it  sounds  pretty  well  — 
to  me.  He  does  own  the  land. 

But  think  what  fun  it  will  be  when  the  Am- 
phibs give  a  regatta !  They  watch  the  porpoises 
now,  the  poor  patients  do,  but  Mr.  Porpoise 
won't  be  in  it  with  the  'Phibs. 

He's  really  great  fun,  the  Brigand,  loud  as 
loquacious  and,  with  it  all,  he's  as  artless  as  a 
school-boy.  By  the  way,  Dear,  I've  been  intend- 
ing to  ask  you,  what  is  the  meaning  of  "  Western 
Reserve"?  I  know  I've  heard  the  expression 
somewhere.  Well,  he  hasn't  it. 


60  THECOCOON 

I  wonder  what  makes  me  meander  so  when  I'm 
writing  to  you.  I  seem  to  be  leaving  myself  on  the 
roof,  in  sight  of  the  Butte,  and  with  my  replica 
of  her  braid  in  full  evidence;  but  not  so.  She 
couldn't  have  seen  it  from  her  cot,  if  she'd  been 
looking,  and  when  she  rose,  it  was  no  trick  at  all 
for  me  to  shift  my  position  and  haul  in  my  cable. 
Then,  when  she  had  gone  and  my  neighbours  had 
dispersed,  I  rose  and  casually  strolled  away. 

But  I  was  excited.  I  felt  like  an  adventuress, 
and  cruel,  which  is  worse.  When  I  got  to  my 
room,  I  threw  myself  on  my  bed,  fairly  shivering 
from  mixed  emotions,  chiefly  terror.  I  simply 
couldn't  be  caught  at  this  sort  of  thing.  And 
my  escape  was  narrow,  assuming  that  it  was  an 
escape. 

I  was  no  company  for  myself,  I  assure  you, 
so  I  rang  and  cancelled  my  supper-tray  order  and 
dressed  and  went  down  to  the  dining-room,  my 
second  appearance  there. 

I  wore  that  dream-chiffon  and  your  pearl 
heart,  slippers  to  match  the  dress  —  and  my  ma- 
donna expression.  And,  Jack,  if  looks  count  for 
anything,  no  one  would  have  believed  me  crim- 
inal, even  if  I'd  been  caught  in  the  act. 


61 

If  I'd  been  arrested  in  Hell  ('sense  the  word) 
and  said  I  was  trying  to  find  Heaven  and  had 
lost  my  way,  Pluto  would  have  dropped  his  fork 
and  bowed  politely  while  he  called  Proserpine 
or  one  of  the  children  to  hold  off  the  dog  and 
see  ine  safely  out,  unmolested.  I'm  sure  of  it. 

It  was  a  pretty  big  bluff,  for  my  size,  Jacky 
dear,  but  I  was  hard-pressed.  At  the  dining- 
room  door,  whom  should  I  meet  but  the  Cana- 
dian, face  to  face,  and  from  his  frank  smile  I 
read  that  all  was  well  in  that  quarter.  With 
the  gentlest  bowr,  almost  as  deferential  as  an 
American's,  he  came  forward : 

"  We've  been  missing  you,  Miss  Heminway?  " 
(Rising  inflection.) 

" — pleasant  on  the  roof,  to-day?"  (My  in- 
flection Englished  up  also.) 

"  Lonely,"  was  his  answer.  ( His  very  first 
personality.) 

"  Lonely  inside,  too !  "  No,  Jack,  I  didn't  say 
it.  It  said  itself  —  just  took  my  honest  tongue 
and  used  it,  and  I  was  as  powerless  to  help  it  as 
I  would  be  to  darken  my  hair  or  pull  down  my 
nose  or  turn  that  crazy  dimple  wrong-side  out 
into  a  peak. 


62  THE     COCOON 

Telling  it  now,  the  whole  episode  sounds  in- 
ane, but  it  was  exciting,  and  as  it  has  afforded 
me  my  only  uninterrupted  rest  since  the  first 
day,  perhaps  it  was  justified. 

Anyway  the  jute  braid  has  served  its  limit,  but 
I  have  another  scheme  for  to-morrow  or,  maybe, 
next  day. 

I  may  take  a  day  off,  just  showing  up  casually 
in  the  interval,  to  ward  off  suspicion  —  and,  too, 
to  get  over  all  this  a  little.  It  has  given  me  a 
terrible  shake-up. 

But  I'm  really  improving  wonderfully,  Jack, 
although  my  rest  seems  a  little  broken,  as  one 
might  say.  Indeed,  there  are  times  when  I  feel 
almost  too  well. 

"All  the  functions  smart,"  said  the  old  Doc- 
tor yesterday.  He's  an  old  dear,  but  he  hasn't 
the  social  vernacular.  He  little  knows  what  a 
"  smart  function  "  means  to  me  —  or  why  I'm 
here. 

In  one  sense,  I'm  having  a  perfect  rest,  for 
I  am  resting  ab-so-lute-ly  from  the  things  I 
care  for  most  —  even  resting  from  my  Beloved. 
And  I'm  resting  from  responsibilities  (plural, 
observe) — from  the  trivial  things  which  wear 


THE     COCOON  63 

on    one,    like    gnats    getting    into    one's    eyes. 

A  lion  in  one's  path  is  worth  while  if  only  for 
the  high  sport  of  vanquishing  him  —  but  gnats ! 
Servants!  Bills!  Mistakes  in  bills!  The  tele- 
phone! Wrong  wash  sent  home!  Eight  wash 
not  sent  out!  Telephone!  Soft  ice-cream! 
Subsided  souffl6 !  Wrong  entree  sent  in  from  ca- 
terers, doubling  home  course  —  guests  already 
arriving,  too  late  to  change!  Telephone! 
Swapping  "  days-out "  with  Bridget !  Telephone 
won't  work!  Telephone  bill  says  telephone 
worked  over  time!  Callers  and  telephone  ad- 
juster and  C.  O.  D.  parcel  "  to  be  tried  on  "  all 
arrive  at  same  moment  with  Angelic  Husband 
who  wonders  why  wife  didn't  arrange  to  have 
them  call  separately.  Tears!  Coaxing!  Tem- 
porary control  —  then  hysteria  —  Angelic  Hus- 
band assumes  all  blame  and  calls  himself  a 
brute !  Reconciliation  and  gr-r-r-r-eat  happiness 
followed  by  "nerve  disturbance" — and  then 
this  place! 

Ach!  Gnats!  Gnats  which  feed  the  divorce 
lawyers  and  keep  institutions  like  this  out  of 
bankruptcy.  Gnats ! 

Why,  there  are  times  when  just  the  memories 


64  THE     COCOON 

of  them  swarm  so  that  I  have  to  take  my  mind 
forcibly  by  the  back  of  its  neck  and  turn  it  into 
other  channels — 'scuse  the  mixed  metaphor  — 
but  I'm  lots  better.  I  even  see  how  I  may  come 
to  enjoy  the  gnats,  after  a  while,  for  your  sake. 
I  know  a  more  demure  woman  with  safer  lines 
and  quieter  colouring  might  get  well  faster,  but 
maybe  she  wouldn't  get  so  jolly  well.  I  begin 
to  feel  it  sizzling  through  me  already,  the  gleeful 
wellness. 

Good  night,  Boy! 
Your-hard-put-to-it 
but  DEVOTED, 
lonely  BLESSY. 

Next  Day. 
(And  the  sea  whistling.) 

Well,  I  really  did  get  to  see  the  Carter  last 
night,  Dear,  and  she's  a  rare  beauty,  exquisite 
as  a  seashell,  but  with  a  haunting  something  in 
her  face,  half  like  a  memory.  I  seemed  to  have 
seen  her  before,  in  a  dream.  Her  hands  lay  in 
her  lap  like  Easter  lilies.  She's  a  great  beauty, 
and  isn't  it  awful? 

"  Social  overdoing,"  they  say,  the  same  old 


THE     COCOON  65 

story.  I  found  her  amiable  but  reticent,  so  I 
chirped  along,  and  after  a  while,  just  to  bring 
her  into  the  talk,  I  asked  her  ever  so  gently  what 
interested  her  most  here  and  she  answered  un- 
blushingly  : 

"The  hell-hounds!" 

Then,  before  I  had  time  to  recover,  she  turned 
her  sad  eyes  upon  me  and  said,  "  KISMET." 

No,  they  don't  take  any  insane  here.  Really, 
they  don't,  and  I'm  beginning  to  understand. 
Whenever  there's  no  "  organic  lesion,"  whatever 
that  is  —  it  sounds  like  a  pianola  attachment  for 
an  organ  —  anyway,  when  they  don't  have  it, 
they  get  well,  and  go  home  cured.  They  are  do- 
ing it  every  day. 

And  remember,  I'm  going  home  with  you  when 
you  come,  Dear,  lesion  or  no  lesion.  I  just 
thought  I'd  tell  you.  I'm  tired  asking  the  doc- 
tor and  being  put  off.  But  I  must  make  good 
with  these  kind  people  here  before  I  go. 

There's  the  Brigand  —  and  the  Canadian  — 
and  sundry  young  M.D.'s  —  and  the  humour- 
page  poet,  et  als  —  yes,  and  the  poor  visiting 
lady  whom  I  snubbed  so  successfully  that  she  no 
longer  dares  tell  me  how  she  loves  me.  I've  even 


66  THECOCOON 

come  over  to  her.  She's  so  pitiful.  She'd  be  all 
right  if  she  were  exploiting  some  other  commod- 
ity, but  love!  As  an  advocate  of  stern  and  for- 
bidding DUTY,  she'd  be  perfect.  Half  the  fail- 
ures in  this  life  are  from  arbitrary  assignments. 
You  see,  I'm  trying  to  talk  up  to  your  great  in- 
tellect, John  Dartmouth  Heminway. 

What  a  terrific  chore  it  must  be  for  a  worthy 
but  vinegar-visaged  person  like  that  to  have  to 
go  the  rounds  in  a  menagerie  like  this,  and  to 
offer  sugar  to  the  beasts  only  to  have  them  growl 
at  her  and  show  their  teeth! 

Life  is  the  great  tragedy,  beloved;  not  death. 
Before  I  leave  this  paradise,  which  it  really  is,  I 
assure  you,  to  the  spiritually  discerning,  I  mean 
to  take  that  thwarted  visiting-lady's  freckled 
hand  in  mine  and  tell  her  I  love  her,  and  it  will 
be  true.  But  it  must  be  the  very  last  word,  at 
the  door.  She  mustn't  have  time  for  reciproca- 
tion. I'm  too  nervous  yet.  My  spirit  is  grow- 
ing in  grace  —  but  the  flesh  is  weak.  Here 
comes  the  mail ! 

Two  Days  Later. 

I  can't  date  this.  I  know  it's  Saturday  and 
the  wind's  from  the  east  and  something  like 


THECOCOON  67 

snow-flakes  swirl  through  the  air,  down  here  in 
Virginia,  and  the  sea  is  a  floppy  wet  blanket. 
(It's  hailing,  too,  and  thundering,  inside  me.) 

I've  done  it,  Jack,  the  other  trick  —  and  I'm 
nearly  crazy !  Did  it  to-day !  But  it  was  great ! 
The  jute  racket  was  tame  to  it.  Poor  Butte!  I 
seem  to  be  making  a  butt  of  her,  but  I'm  not. 
I'm  only  using  the  material  at  hand  and  if  she's 
material,  is  it  my  fault? 

My  plan  was  to  work  the  same  trick,  from  the 
other  end.  I  pinned  one  of  my  yellow  curls  on 
her  pillow  as  I  sauntered  by  the  cot  in  which  she 
lay  deeply  immured,  then  crawled  into  my  own, 
and  watched  the  fun. 

I  knew  her  cot  by  the  flute  which  lay  beside  it 
and  was  fortunate  in  finding  her  audibly  asleep. 
She  sleeps  a  good  deal  now,  in  the  daytime.  It 
was  early  in  the  afternoon;  only  two  other  cots 
occupied  at  our  end,  and  sleep  echoes  coming 
from  both. 

And  so,  as  I  said,  I  just  strolled  past  her  co- 
coon, stood  a  moment  looking  outward  till  I  had 
managed  to  drop  my  veil  over  the  flute,  and  while 
I  stooped  to  pick  them  up  together,  nothing  could 
have  been  simpler  than  to  slip  the  curl  with  an 


68  THECOCOON 

invisible  hairpin  onto  her  poor  head  —  that  is, 
on  the  pillow  beside  it,  just  beyond  her  possible 
field  of  vision  —  to  find  my  own  cocoon,  to  scram- 
ble into  it  and  close  up,  in  a  position  command- 
ing the  situation. 

For  an  endless  time  nothing  happened  and  I 
was  finally  dropping  into  sleep  from  sheer  weari- 
ness, with  the  flute  against  my  heart,  when  the 
fortuitous  tramp  of  the  Brigand,  who  material- 
ised quite  near  me  pulling  his  soft  hat  down  over 
his  eyes  better  to  scan  the  roof,  stopped  my  heart 
entirely. 

I  saw  him  when  he  first  sighted  the  yellow 
curl  and  began  to  veer  toward  it,  but  before  he 
had  reached  it,  a  vociferous  snort  and  then  an- 
other startled  the  roof.  The  Butte  was  dead  to 
the  world. 

I  never  saw  the  Brigand  convulsed  before. 
His  great  joints  fairly  rattled  and  as  he  sham- 
bled away,  unconsciously  grazing  my  pillow  as 
he  passed,  I  heard  him  chuckle : 

"  Well.     That's  one  on  Goldie-locks." 

He  never  doubted  that  I  was  the  snorer.  I 
hardly  think  such  snoring  is  habitual  with  the 
Butte.  It  couldn't  be  with  any  woman.  It  was 


THE     COCOON  69 

too  awful,  too  cataclysmic  to  last,  but  its  three 
or  four  blasts  waked  the  cocoonery. 

You  know  the  kind  —  like  that  of  your  apo- 
plectic friend  who  week-ended  with  us  that  sum- 
mer at  Oyster  Bay.  Do  you  remember  how 
Bridget  came  running  in  to  us  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  crying  that  there  was  a  hog  in 
the  dining-room,  and  you  rushed  down  to  dis- 
cover that  our  guest,  finding  his  room  rather 
close,  had  risen  in  search  of  a  breeze  and  had 
fallen  asleep  in  the  veranda  hammock?  Well, 
the  Butte's  snorting  was  even  worse  than  that. 
Poor  old  Hendriksen !  How  mortified  he  would 
have  been  if  he  had  known ! 

Well,  Jack  dear,  this  is  how  the  comedy  of  the 
roof  began.  As  all  the  cocoons  are  on  a  level,  of 
course  no  one  had  noticed  the  curl  or  suspected 
anything.  When  the  brief  paroxysm  had  passed, 
the  Butte  slept  along  fairly  quietly,  although  she 
is  one  of  those  whom  one  can  always  hear  sleep, 
being  as  you  might  say  a  hearty  person. 

But  the  afternoon  was  drowsy,  warmish  and 
tense,  and  your  sister  was  getting  every  possible 
chance  at  the  sleep  she  was  too  excited  to  take, 
when  things  began  happening.  Several  of  her 


70  THE     COCOON 

acquaintances  tiptoed  inquiringly  among  the 
cots,  saw  the  lure,  heard  the  sleep  and  passed  on. 

One  even  ventured  near  enough  to  lay  a  bunch 
of  roses  over  her  alleged  feet  and  noiselessly 
creep  away.  Then  presently  came  the  Canadian 
and  I  felt  myself  blushing  up  to  my  temples,  all 
alone  in  my  cocoon.  His  well-bred  presence 
seemed  to  give  the  whole  thing  its  proper  rating 
and  I  was  suddenly  heartily  ashamed  of  it.  To 
make  matters  worse,  I  was  supposed  to  be  ex- 
pecting him,  as  he  had  asked  the  privilege  of 
fetching  a  bit  of  verse  for  my  "  candid  criticism," 
a  poem  entitled  "  The  Droning  of  the  Spring." 

After  a  swift  sweeping  survey,  he  sped,  camp- 
stool  in  hand,  straight  as  an  arrow  to  the  cot  of 
the  yellow  curl  where  audibly  slept  the  young 
lady  of  Butte  whose  silver-gilt  flute  lay  in  my 
bosom. 

How  my  heart  played  upon  it,  as  I  watched 
him!  Had  it  been  a  stringed  instrument,  it 
must  have  responded  with  a  wail,  but  my  breath- 
less panic  could  not  call  it  into  life,  fortunately. 

I  watched  him  take  his  seat;  saw  him  open 
his  book  and  begin  to  turn  pages;  then  I  either 
heard  or  imagined  that  I  heard  his  soft,  " —  not 


THE     COCOON  71 

intruding?  "  and  in  a  moment,  I  fancied  myself 
following  the  measures  of  the  verse  as  his  well 
modulated  voice  rose  and  fell  with  the  rhythm. 
I  confess,  it  sounded  just  a  wee  bit  mellifluous 
to  me,  as  I  listened,  but  that  may  unconsciously 
have  been  suggested  by  the  title,  although  I  can- 
not deny  that  the  poem  has  a  honeyed  cadence. 

He  has  talent,  this  Canadian,  if  not  a  glint 
of  genius.  You  must  know  him.  You'd  be  thick 
as  thieves  in  no  time. 

The  Butte  is  a  sound  sleeper  if  a  tragic  one 
and  I  suspect  that  the  Canadian  as  an  author 
is  a  bit  egoistic,  as  otherwise  he  would  surely 
have  divined  that  she  whom  he  sought  was  not 
there.  Authors  reading  their  own  creations 
sometimes  seem  oblivious  to  the  world.  So, 
saturated  with  his  own  thought,  the  poet  read 
on  and  on.  The  droning  droned  out  at  last, 
however ;  but  I  soon  discerned  a  resumption  with 
change  of  metre  and  all  was  going  evenly  once 
more  when  there  recurred  the  catastrophe  of  the 
snore.  I  hope  never  to  hear  its  like  again.  It 
was  high  tragedy  and,  simultaneously  with  the 
explosion,  a  great  arm  was  thrust  out,  an  arm 
clad  in  a  grey  sweater,  and  then  something 


72  THE     COCOON 

swirled  and  a  long  black  braid  actually  flapped 
a  crimson  bow  into  the  face  of  the  gentle  Cana- 
dian !  A  confusion  of  quilts  followed,  and  all  in 
a  twinkling,  the  Butte  was  standing  up,  blink- 
ing —  and  neither  Canadian  nor  camp-stool  was 
anywhere  in  sight. 

To  do  her  justice,  I  do  not  believe  the  Butte 
had  any  idea  that  anybody  had  been  there,  for, 
after  gazing  vacantly  about  her  as  one  dazed, 
she  drawled: 

"  Well,  I  never.  Dremp'  I  was  in  a  saw-mill 
—  an'  such  a  funny  buzzin',  like  water  over  a 
wheel  precizely.  Ain't  it  re-dic'lous!  " 

And  she  was  sinking  down  into  her  bunk  again 
when  she  descried  the  roses,  fortunately  turning 
her*  back  upon  my  wretched  little  curl,  which 
flickered  like  a  yellow  flame  upon  her  pillow, 
scorching  my  eyes  and  burning  into  my  soul. 

"  O-h !  "  she  gasped.  "  His  yellow  roses !  " 
And  burying  her  face  in  the  flowers,  she  burst 
into  tears  and  hurried  from  the  roof. 

Time  is  up.  I'm  rushing  this  to  mail.  More 
anon. 

B. 

Written  in  Diary  late  that  night: 


THE    COCOON  73 

. 

Oh,  you  Book  of  my  Heart,  chum,  pal,  confi- 
dant—  and  before  we  get  through,  perhaps  my 
confederate,  even  my  accomplice  —  for  aided  and 
abetted  by  your  receptivity  and  reticence,  I  could 
essay  anything. 

How  glad  I  am  of  you!  —  although  I  come 
empty  to-night,  for  all  that's  brewing  now  I'm 
telling  Jack;  and  surely  there's  no  news  in  this 
reformatory ! 

Oh,  yes,  there  is,  too.  It's  bats!  I  counted 
sixty-seven  as  they  flapped  out  of  a  broken  pane 
in  the  attic  of  the  ten-pin  alley  yesterday. 
Sixty-seven!  Think  of  it!  And  sixty-six  of 
them  I  counted  through  the  veil  I  flopped  over 
my  head  after  number  one.  I'm  afraid  of  a  bat 
as  far  off  as  I  can  distinguish  one  from  a  bird, 
and  that's  about  as  far  as  I  can  see  him.  I  be- 
lieve Jack  would  almost  send  for  me,  if  he  knew. 
Anyway,  he'd  worry.  Every  now  and  then  we 
have  bat-scares  down  at  Oyster  Bay,  when  one 
strays  into  our  room  in  the  night  —  so  Jack 
knows ! 

Even  if  they  don't  tangle  themselves  up  in 
women's  hair,  they  look  evil  and  I  notice  the  art- 
ists generally  work  them  into  any  abominations 


74  THE     COCOON 

of  desolation  they  are  trying  to  picture,  so  I  say 
no  bats  for  me!  I  even  put  out  my  light  last 
night  and  gave  up  reading  lest  one  should  dash 
into  my  hair  through  the  open  window.  They 
may  be  devils,  but  these  will  be  doing  angels' 
work  if  they  get  me  more  sleep. 

Think  of  fleas  and  bats  in  this  immaculate 
place!  I  was  wondering  this  morning  how  that 
flea  must  have  felt,  finding  himself  in  my  cool 
cambric  and  lace  nightie-sleeve  after  being  blown 
out  of  the  warm  coat  of  those  Frog  Island  col- 
lies. I  said  it  out  aloud,  not  realising  the  pres- 
ence of  Malviny-May,  who  was  brushing  up  my 
hearth,  until  I  saw  her  straighten  up  and  lean 
on  her  broom,  as  she  chuckled: 

"  Frog  Island  fleas !  Yes,  I  know  that's  what 
they  say ;  but  have  you  took  notice  that  the  wind 
that  would  blow  7em  from  Frog  Island  would 
have  to  pass  over  our  Seafair  stables?  —  not 
sayin'  anythin'.  But  I  know  I  haven't  never 
put  my  foot  on  Frog  Island,  but  many  a  Sunday 
evenin'  have  I  caught  a  lively  flea  on  my  collar, 
just  passin'  our  barn  —  an'  no  wind  blowin' 
neither  —  not  makin'  any  remarks.  Of  course, 
you  never  know  what's  in  the  wind,  an'  it  could 


THECOCOON  75 

lift  fleas  off'n  those  kennels,  if  there  was  any 
there,  an'  drop  'em  on  our  barn  —  if  it  was  nec- 
essary, I  s'pose." 

Then  languidly  resuming  her  sweeping,  she 
hesitated,  but  just  for  a  moment. 

"  Dr.  Welborn  did  have  one  o'  the  varmints 
under  a  microscope  here  a  while  back  an'  I  heard 
'em  discussin'  the  circulation  of  its  blood  which 
he  allowed  me  to  put  my  eye  to  the  glass  an'  look 
at,  an'  it  cert'n'y  did  circulate  fine ;  an'  I  told  'im 
he  hadn't  ought  to  miss  the  chance  to  send  a 
drop  of  it  down  to  the  laboratory  to  find  out 
whether  it  was  blue  pedigree  Collie  blood  or  such 
common  red  as  our  Seafair  mongrel  pups  might 
supply,  an'  I  wish  you  could  'a'  heard  'em  laugh ; 
not  that  I  see  where  the  joke  come  in. 

"  Michael,  our  head  stable-man,  he  brags  that 
he's  got  more  kinds  o'  dog  in  his  stable  than  all 
the  Downer  an'  Leffingwell  kennels  put  together 
—  an'  they're  all  in  five  dogs,  no  two  alike.  He 
allows  he  likes  'em  that  a-way  because  he  says, 
in  a  mixed  drink  is  every  kind  of  a  drunk.  He 
runs  on  just  to  pass  the  time,  Michael  does." 

Really,  Bookie,  this  strikes  my  funny-bone  so 
that  I'm  tempted  to  tell  Jack  about  it.  I  really 


76  THECOCOON 

must  —  but  we'll  keep  the  bats  to  ourselves. 
Dear  old  Jack!  And  to  think  how  I  used  to 
doubt  him  and  fairly  writhe  in  jealousy.  Noth- 
ing on  earth  would  have  power  to  make  me  dis- 
trust him  now  —  nothing!  Isn't  that  sort  of 
faith  great?  And  we've  arrived  at  it  through  the 
daily  wear  and  tear  of  five  long  years  of  steady 
companionship.  This  is  our  first  separation  and 
God  grant  it  may  be  brief ! 

Why,  my  faith  is  such  that  if  Jack  were  to 
break  an  engagement  to  dine  at  home  in  New 
York  on  account  of  "a  Directors'  meeting" 
( which,  of  course,  should  not  occur  at  the  dinner 
hour)  and  I  should  learn  that  he  had  gone  to 
Coney  Island  with  a  chorus  girl,  I'd  know  she 
had  been  needed  at  the  meeting  and  that  they 
were  holding  it  down  by  the  sea  for  business  rea- 
sons. Of  course,  Jack  never  does  anything  like 
that.  I'm  only  imagining  an  extreme  case. 

And  so,  Bookie,  dear,  I  hope  you  realise  that 
the  temperamental  little  goose  who  bedaubed 
your  pages  with  ill-founded  anguish  in  our  cal- 
low days  comes  back  to  you  now  a  happy  woman, 
secure  in  the  faith  of  the  best  man  on  earth. 

I've  just  sent  him  one  letter  at  the  last  mail- 


THE     COCOON  77 

ing  moment  and  then  kept  on  writing  him  a  vol- 
ume right  out  of  my  heart,  to  go  to-morrow,  tell- 
ing him  of  all  my  frivolities.  It's  a  test  of  con- 
fidence to  write  page  after  page  of  volatile  stuff 
to  a  serious-minded  man  like  Jack,  but  I  know 
him  and  I  can  hear  him  chuckle  over  my  giddiest 
escapade. 

His  mother  wore  her  hair  in  bandeaux  over 
her  ears  and  dressed  in  gros  grain  silk  with 
cameo  brooch  and  lace  fichu  every  day,  and  she 
read  "  Jay's  Morning  and  Evening  Exercises  " 
to  liim,  daily,  and  selections  from  Paley's  "  Evi- 
dences "  on  Sundays  —  and  he  married  me  for  a 
change,  Jack  did.  And  he  got  it,  too,  poor  Jack ! 

But  here  I  sit  gabbling  and  I  promised  myself 
to  take  some  of  these  New  York  roses  to  that 
poor  Miss  Carter  —  Jack  will  waste  his  good 
money  sending  me  flowers  for  every  anniver- 
sary  

To-day  is  the  sixth  anniversary  of  the  fourth 
and  last  time  I  engaged  myself  to  him  —  after 
that  dreadful  row  that  started  by  his  refusing  to 
tell  me  his  fraternity  pass-word,  you  remember. 
Oh,  Bookie,  wasn't  I  a  little  idiot? 

And  Jack  never  forgets  any  of  them  and  these 


78  THE     COCOON 

four,  with  our  wedding-day  and  Christmas  and 
New  Year's  and  Easter  and  my  birthday  and  off 
and  on  occasions,  why  they  keep  him  busy. 
Somehow,  his  commemorating  all  our  re-engage- 
ments as  he  does  always  seems  a  gentle  reproof 
to  me,  but  I  don't  let  on. 

But  I  really  must  go,  or  the  wee  Carter5!!  be 
in  bed.  I'll  take  her  some  of  Jack's  chocolate 
creams,  too,  I  believe,  poor  distrait  little  human ! 
She  has  evidently  worked  on  Jack's  sympathies 
through  her  friends,  for  he  confesses  he  doesn't 
know  her.  He's  a  dear,  softie  old  saint  is  my 
Jack! 

Think  of  a  man  in  his  position  bringing  home 
whining  little  gutter  kittens  in  his  overcoat 
pocket !  Three  of  them  I've  wrestled  with,  given 
the  bottle  to  and  seen  die,  in  these  five  years ! 

I  never  could  stand  cats  and  neither  could 
Jack,  till  his  sister  gave  me  Muff  and  of  course 
Muffly  couldn't  be  given  away;  but  Jack  can't 
stand  to  see  anything  suffer,  and,  I  tell  you, 
Bookie,  he's  had  lots  of  it  from  me.  I've  been 
little  better  than  a  whining  sick  kitten  to  him 
more  than  once,  dear,  dear  Jack! 

All  the  women  like  Jack,  and  I'm  glad  of  it. 


THECOCOON  79 

I'm  proud  to  have  him  popular  —  that  is,  general 
popularity.  It's  funny  how  these  slight,  thin- 
haired,  near-sighted  men  like  Jack  always  make 
good  with  women.  I've  noticed  it  and  I  suppose 
it's  just  because  they're  clever  and  don't  seem  to 
care  a  cent  —  and  then  they  have  ways. 

I  often  wonder  what  I'd  have  done  if  I'd  mar- 
ried that  handsome  noodle,  my  sister  Mary's  hus- 
band. (He  asked  me  first.  Then  he  sobered 
down  and  came  to  himself  and  got  a  far  better 
wife,  lucky  man!)  He  suits  her  down  to  the 
ground  and  he's  the  pattern  of  a  brother-in-law; 
but  for  daily  fare,  all  that  ponderous  present- 
ment of  good  looks  as  compared  to  my  Jack  — ! ! ! 
But  I  must  go ! 

Five  O'clock  next  Morning  —  Daylight, 

and  I  haven't  closed  my  eyes. 
Oh,  my  heart,  my  heart! 
What  shall  I  do?    Where  go? 
Oh,      Book-of-my-Broken-Heart !    All     night 
long  I've  lain  here  in  cold  storage  staring  out 
over  the  sea  —  all  night  but  once  when  I  just 
couldn't  stand  it  a  minute  longer  and  I  got  up, 
threw  on  my  cloak  and  started  for  the  roof.    I 


80  THE     COCOON 

had  to  get  away  from  everything  for  a  while, 
and  I  thought  the  stars  might  help,  but  it  was 
no  use.  Everything  seemed  deceitful  and  catty. 
Even  the  sea  was  purring. 

Besides,  I  soon  found  I  wasn't  alone.  Several 
of  the  patients  sleep  up  there.  I  knew  it,  but 
I'd  forgotten.  And  in  the  alcove  beyond  the 
south  tower  two  people  were  huddled  close  to- 
gether, whispering.  He  looked  half  like  Dr. 
Welborn,  somehow,  the  man  did,  and  something 
told  me  she  was  that  smiling  girl  that  works 
the  static,  that  pretty  one  that  colours  so 
when  she  speaks;  but  I  may  be  doing  her  injus- 
tice. If  it  was  she,  no  doubt  they'd  come  up 
here  to  consult  about  some  case.  The  days  are 
so  full. 

Isn't  it  strange  how  I  can  prate  of  casual 
things  this  way  —  and  my  heart  breaking? 
And  I  find  that  the  roof-steward  sleeps  inside, 
just  as  the  doctors  do.  It's  as  if  the  medical 
profession  were  turning  their  patients  out-of- 
doors  and  then  getting  into  their  beds. 

Any  old  talk,  dear  Book,  about  any  old  thing 
—  just  to  keep  from  thinking.  Oh,  oh,  oh!!! 
If  only  I  could  wake  and  find  it  all  a  dream ! 


THE     COCOON  81 

She  hadn't  gone  to  bed,  the  little  Carter.  I 
saw  her  —  yes,  I  saw  her  —  looking  like  a  saint 
out  of  Heaven,  sitting  there  with  her  light 
turned  low  —  and,  oh,  dear  heart  of  me,  how  can 
I  tell  it! 

I  had  already  given  her  the  flowers  and  the 
chocolates  when  she  turned  up  her  light,  and 
there  lay  at  her  elbow  a  letter  addressed  to  her 
in  my  Jack's  writing  —  unequivocally  his  — 
and  on  the  same  stationery  he  uses  to  me  —  and 
the  envelope  torn  wide  open  lying  there  before 
me. 

And,  as  to  my  one  little  box  of  chocolates, 
why,  she  had  stacks  of  empty  boxes  exactly  like 
it,  from  the  same  New  York  house,  and  all.  Of 
course,  this  doesn't  prove  anything,  and  yet,  one 
would  be  a  fool  not  to 

Oh,  well !  What's  the  dif ' !  But  isn't  it  aw- 
ful! 

I  mean  what  I  say.  I  really  don't  care,  if  he 
wants  to  start  this  sort  of  thing  —  but  what 
does  he  want  with  a  crazy  woman? 

What  do  you  think  she  said  when  I  gave  her 
the  bonbons? 

"  Oh,  how  candied  of  you ! "    She  smiled  the 


83  THE     COCOON 

words  out,  and  then,  knitting  her  brows  and 
looking  troubled,  she  added :  "  But  why  didn't 
you  telegraph  them  to  our  foreign  missions?  We 
feed  our  heathen  too  much  meat."  Then,  with 
another  smile  which  was  like  the  opening  of  the 
heavens,  she  piped:  "Do  you  tango?" 

Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  answered.  I  prob- 
ably assured  her  that  that  was  what  had  brought 
me  to  this,  tango  and  bunny-hug  and  the  rest  of 
it  —  which  isn't  so  very  far  from  the  truth,  fig- 
uratively, at  least. 

But  oh,  my  Jack,  what  does  it  all  mean?  Why 
did  he  go  out  of  his  way  to  assure  me  that  he 
didn't  know  her?  Such  gratuitous  lying!  I 
hadn't  asked  him  —  and  it  isn't  as  if  I  were  sus- 
picious —  or  jealous ! 

Oh,  if  you  could  only  advise  me,  dear  little 
Book,  but  you  are  so  still.  Why  don't  you  say 
something!  Ah,  yes,  I  can  imagine  you  answer- 
ing me :  "  Steady,  now,  Blessy,  steady.  Don't 
go  off  half-cocked.  Eemember  the  old  days. 
Wait  and  see.  No  doubt  there'll  be  some  ex- 
planation." 

As  if  there  could  be  any  explanation  of  per- 
fectly simple  English.  "  Don't  know  her"  means 


THE     COCOON  83 

don't  know  her,  and  can't  mean  anything  else. 
Letters  and  candy  mean  letters  and  candy  — 
and  can't  be  twisted  to  mean  anything  else. 

No,  I  believe  in  looking  a  thing  squarely  in 
the  face.  I  may  be  a  fool,  but  I'm  no  coward. 
But  he'll  never  hear  me  whimper.  We'll  see  to 
that,  you  and  I,  dear  Book. 

But,  right  now  —  with  me  on  the  shelf  —  and 
away  off  here,  too  far  for  him  to  comfort  me  in 
my  trouble  —  and  after  all  I've  just  been  writing 
him  —  about  the  children  and  everything : 

Oh,  Jack,  how  could  you ! 

There's  one  thing  I'm  glad  of,  though.  He 
knows  I  haven't  been  moping  while  he's  having 
a  good  time,  leading  a  sort  of  double  life.  Yes, 
I  know  it's  strong  language  —  but  we  mustn't 
be  afraid  of  the  truth.  Double  means  not  single 
and  he  hasn't  had  an  eye  single  to  the  woman  of 
his  life.  I  call  that  doubleness. 

I  wonder  what  he  writes  her  —  and  if  he  tells 
her  anything  about  me?  It  would  be  sort  of 
awful  if  he  did  —  and  maybe  worse  if  he  didn't. 
Oh,  dear! 

But  I  must  be  writing  him  —  and  I  must  seem 
to  be  writing  him  just  the  same,  which  will  come 


84  THECOCOON 

hard.  I'll  never  let  on,  though.  My  letters 
must  be  the  same  and  yet  not  the  same. 

Writing  to  Jack  has  always  been  like  putting 
my  head  on  his  bosom  and  resting.  Now  it'll 
be  like  —  well,  like  sitting  up  across  the  room 
with  manners  and  saying  polite  things. 

But  I  can  do  it!  I  can  do  anything  life  re- 
quires of  me.  Of  course,  it'll  be  skirting  the 
edge  of  a  precipice  —  but  I  can  even  do  that. 
There  was  a  time  when  I  sat  up  and  behaved 
when  he  was  around  —  and  I  reckon  I  can  do  it 
again. 

If  a  certain  propriety  which  I  may  not  be 
able  to  keep  out  of  my  letter  reminds  him  of 
our  courting  days,  so  much  the  better.  Maybe 
that  way  remorse  lies  —  for  him. 

What  a  pity  I  wrote  that  long  letter  yester- 
day, after  mailing  one  a  mile  long.  Of  course, 
that  won't  do  now.  My  head  was  on  his  bosom 
then,  and  it's  all  too  sweet.  But  I  must  go  and 
try  to  write  him. 

Two  days  later : 

It's  no  use,  Book-of-my-sore-heart  —  no  use! 
I've  begun  a  dozen  letters  to  him,  determined  in 


THECOCOON  85 

each  one  to  guard  and  not  to  seem  to  guard  my 
secret  —  but  it  won't  go. 

Oh,  what  should  I  do  now,  if  I  hadn't  called 
you  in  again!  —  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  too. 
I  must  have  had  some  occult  sense  of  trouble 
looming,  a  sort  of  presentiment  of  evil,  when  I 
turned  to  you. 

Three  letters  have  come  in  from  him  since 
I've  known,  and  as  each  one  arrives,  I  vow  I 
won't  read  it,  and  then  I'm  obliged  to  read  it  to 
see  whether  I'd  be  warranted  in  refusing  to  read 
it  or  not.  That's  only  reasonable  —  and  fair  — 
and  I'm  going  to  be  fair  to  Jack,  even  now  — 
and  tactful,  too.  You  see  if  I  don't! 

A  weak  woman  would  grow  hysterical  in  such 
a  situation,  but  I  never  felt  more  calm  in  my 
life  even  while  I  hardly  know  what  to  do.  Calm- 
ness has  never  been  my  strong  point,  either. 
Perhaps  what  I've  needed  is  trouble,  and  God 
knows  I'm  in  the  thick  of  it,  now.  Maybe  I'll 
come  out  of  it  a  better  woman,  God  helping 
me,  and  a  stronger  one. 

I  have  cried  over  these  last  letters,  but  weep- 
ing doesn't  count  for  weeping  when  no  one  sees 
you  weep  —  and  no  one  ever  shall  see  me  weep. 


86  THECOCOON 

These  last  letters  of  his  are  all  right,  I  suppose. 
There  hasn't  been  one  so  far,  surely,  which  I 
ought  exactly  to  repudiate,  and  if  there  was,  I 
wouldn't  do  it  What  would  I  have  left? 

Of  course,  they  read  differently,  in  the  new 
light.  What  three  days  ago  would  have  seemed 
like  a  fine  abandon  in  unreckoning  love-mak- 
ing, sounds  like  cold-blooded  perfidy  —  until 
I  think  it  over.  It  isn't  as  bad  as  that;  really, 
it  isn't.  You  see,  I'm  not  letting  this  thing  run 
away  with  me.  The  truth  is,  his  ardent  letters 
have  just  become  habit  with  Jack.  He  wouldn't 
know  how  to  write  me  any  other  way,  and  I'm 
not  ready  to  say  I  want  him  to,  either.  Cooling 
would  be  dreadful. 

Of  course,  taking  it  critically,  anything  less 
than  full  sincerity  in  a  husband  is  perfidious. 
I  suppose  there's  no  middle  ground  for  a  man, 
he  being  the  aggressor.  He  is  either  god  or  devil 
to  the  woman  who  loves  him.  A  woman  is  dif- 
ferent. She  is  human,  first  and  last,  womanly 
faults  balancing  womanly  virtues  in  the  soft- 
bosomed  creature  who  spends  her  life  in  loving 
and  forgiving.  That's  why  she's  so  much  more 
approachable  than  man.  Last  night,  lying 


THECOCOON  87 

awake,  I  wished  I'd  married  Joe  Jeffries  and 
gone  in  for  motor  cars  and  excitement,  for  then, 
although  I'd  have  lost  the  man  I  loved,  I'd  have 
kept  my  ideal.  Jack  would  have  represented 
perfection  to  me  to  the  end  of  time.  Now,  I've 
lost  my  ideal  and  have  only  half  got  Jack  and 
he  isn't  the  same  Jack.  But  it's  too  late  now. 

And  all  this  silly  talk  isn't  answering  his  let- 
ters—  and  I  left  off  in  my  last  letter  right  in 
the  midst  of  things  on  the  roof  —  the  Butte  had 
just  grabbed  up  those  yellow  roses  and  rushed 
away  in  tears  —  and  he'll  be  waiting  to  hear  the 
rest.  Of  course,  I've  got  to  seem  to  keep  on 
where  I  left  off,  and  it's  the  hardest  job  I  ever 
tackled. 

I  suppose  I  could  just  send  it  along  —  that 
saccharine  effusion  of  night  before  last  —  and  it 
would  keep  him  off  the  scent  till  I  get  my  bear- 
ings. But  if  I  do,  I'll  have  to  rush  it  along 
without  reading  it  over.  It's  fairly  cloying  in 
its  sweetness  —  and  strange  to  say,  I  never 
tasted  the  honey  at  all  when  I  wrote  it. 

Imagine  his  getting  such  a  letter  of  faith  and 
affection  just  as  he  is  licking  a  postage-stamp 
to  put  on  a  letter  to  little  Hell-hounds.  I  be- 


88  THE     COCOON 

lieve  that's  what  I'll  call  her  after  this.  No,  I 
take  that  back.  It's  rough.  She  looks  like  an 
angel,  but  I  tell  you  she  won't  do  —  even  if  she 
is  half  crazy.  She  looks  too  good  to  be  true  — 
and  she  is. 

I've  half  a  mind  to  send  that  letter  of  mine 
along  to  Jack  —  and  let  it  go  for  what  it's  worth. 
He's  my  husband  anyhow  and  it's  an  honest  let- 
ter—  and  I  don't  care!  It  was  written  in  all 
sincerity,  if  it  is  mailed  in  despair. 

And  even  if  I  succeeded  in  writing  one  just 
to  my  taste  now,  he  might  notice  something 
wrong  —  and  he  says  he's  caught  a  bad  cold  and 
I'm  worried  to  death  about  him,  as  it  is. 

The  truth  is,  Jack  needs  me.  He  never  knows 
what  thickness  of  wool  he's  wearing.  I  just  look 
at  the  thermometer  outside  the  window  and  lay 
out  his  things  for  him,  and  on  they  go  without 
a  question.  Men  are  such  babies.  They  need 
mothering  more  than  they  need  wifing  —  almost. 

Oh,  Jack!  How  am  I  going  to  stand  this! 
He  seems  so  far  away  —  and  I  miss  his  nearness. 
I  wouldn't  think  God  would  let  a  thing  like  this 
come  to  a  person  like  me.  I  know  I'm  trivial 


THE     COCOON  89 

and  thoughtless  —  but  even  my  Latin  teacher 
used  to  say  I  was  a  good  little  thing. 

And  this  nonsense  on  the  roof  here  is  the 
nearest  I've  ever  come  to  lying  —  and  I've  told 
Jack  every  bit  of  it. 

Maybe  if  I  send  this  letter  along,  he'll  sud- 
denly realise  that  I'm  a  transparent,  loving  lit- 
tle goose  —  and  he's  a  cloudy  deceiver. 

Anyhow,  things  can't  be  much  worse  than  they 
are  now  —  so  here  goes.  I'll  ring  for  the  corri- 
dor-patrol and  send  it  down  to  be  mailed.  And 
then  maybe  I  can  get  some  good  sleep. 

THE  SACCHARINE  LETTER 

'(Mail-time  came,  dear  Jack,  so  I  rushed  off  what 
I'd  written  and  now,  while  it's  all  fresh  in  my 
mind,  I'll  go  ahead.) 

We  were ? 

Oh,  yes,  I  remember.  The  Butte  had  just 
found  my  yellow  roses.  Well,  of  course,  it  was 
all  funny,  in  a  way,  although  a  bit  too  much  like 
horse-play  for  my  conservative  taste.  Still,  no- 
body, seeing  the  catastrophe  of  the  Canadian's 
elimination,  could  say  it  wasn't  killingly  funny ; 


90  THE    COCOON 

and  yet,  I,  knowing  the  full  humorous  inward- 
ness of  it,  laughed  not  at  all.  One  needs  per- 
spective for  comedy.  The  flute  upon  my  bosom 
weighed  a  ton.  The  guilt  on  my  conscience  had 
buried  my  sense  of  humour  fathoms  deep. 

When  I  ventured  to  lift  my  head  a  little  to 
discover  if  the  curl  was  in  sight,  I  saw  only  a 
pile  of  upset  bedding.  No  glint  of  gold,  at  once 
to  comfort  and  affright  me.  So  I  lay  back,  limp- 
spirited  and  weary,  and  waited;  but  the  roofers 
were  slow  to  disperse  and  when  finally  I  ven- 
tured to  rise,  it  was  twilight  and  a  crescent  moon 
mocked  me  with  her  silver  horns  while  I  strolled 
across  the  roof,  restored  the  flute  as  I  had  taken 
it,  dropping  it  with  my  veil  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
comedy  cot,  recovering  the  veil  and  tripping 
nervously  away,  my  heart  overflowing  with  grat- 
itude to  Almighty  God  to  be  freed  of  this  wit- 
ness. 

Just  supposing  the  Butte  had  yelled  for  her 
flute  as  soon  as  she  waked  —  as  she  most  cer- 
tainly would  have  done  but  for  the  diversion  of 
the  roses!  Where  would  I  have  been?  Eealis- 
ing  my  narrow  escape,  you  may  know  how  I 
felt,  Jack,  when  hearing  steps  behind  me  just  as 


THE     COCOON  91 

I  reached  the  door,  I  glanced  back  to  see  my 
poor  victim,  roses  and  all,  scurrying  back  for  her 
forgotten  treasure. 

Did  I  wait  to  see  her  find  it?  Not  I,  beloved 
One!  The  flute  episode  instantly  became  an- 
cient history  in  the  face  of  a  new  menace.  What 
about  my  little  curl?  Would  she  find  it  —  and 
flourish  it  before  the  roof?  I  tell  you,  Jack, 
a  yellow  peril  no  bigger  than  a  candle-flame 
threatened  to  fire  my  mine;  and  where  would 
any  of  us  have  been  after  the  explosion?  And 
this  it  was,  this  dread,  that  sent  your  poor  wife 
with  all  speed  to  her  room. 

Never  again,  Jack ! 

However,  nothing  happened  at  supper.  I  went 
down  smiling  in  sheer  despair,  selected  a  seat 
where  a  mirror  afforded  me  a  reflection  of 
comers  and  goers  —  played  with  my  vinaigrette 
and  my  fan  —  and  got  my  wind. 

It  isn't  a  bad  manreuvre,  Jack,  when  the 
enemy  is  uncertain,  this  mirror  business ;  and 
you  can  imagine  how  thrilled  I  was  when,  al- 
most immediately  after  I  took  my  seat,  my  point 
of  vantage  gave  me  the  Butte  striding  in  majes- 
tically, arrayed  in  canary  satin  with  a  great 


92  THE    COCOON 

corsage  of  yellow  roses.  She  had  even  substi- 
tuted yellow  for  the  red  ribbon  upon  her  hair. 
But  the  gold  of  her  costume  was  as  nothing  to 
the  radiance  of  her  beaming  face. 

Of  course,  I  had  to  see  more  of  the  play,  and 
so,  after  supper,  I  drifted  with  the  crowd  into 
the  parlour,  instead  of  dashing  back  to  my  room 
to  be  confronted  by  my  conscience  and  no  end 
of  mental  bugaboos. 

Poor  Butte!  And  poor  old  Blessy!  Yes,  I 
did  pity  myself,  for  it  seemed  to  me  I  was  being 
sent  all  the  way  to  hell  for  insufficient  cause. 
It  was  hard  on  us  both,  although  I  have  never 
seen  the  Butte  look  half  so  happy,  and  I  assure 
you  the  institutional  smile  wasn't  in  it  with  my 
beaming  face. 

But  before  we  go  any  further,  Jack,  let  me  tell 
you  about  those  roses.  It  was  the  little  joker 
who  brought  them,  and  the  way  of  it  was  this: 
You  see,  he  likes  to  come  and  stand  and  talk  to 
me  and  I've  grown  rather  to  esteem  him.  He 
isn't  half  bad,  the  little  joke-man.  I  tell  you, 
it  takes  grit  for  a  man  who  has  lost  a  big  job 
through  typhoid  fever  to  take  care  of  himself 
through  his  convalescence  by  industry,  and  to  do 


THECOCOON  93 

it  with  merriment,  and  that's  what  that  little 
man  is  accomplishing. 

Well,  to  go  back  to  the  roses,  it  was  this  way : 
One  day,  he  startled  me  by  calmly  remarking 
that  he  had  just  made  ten  dollars  off  my  head, 
and  before  I  could  question  him,  he  went  on  to 
repeat  the  refrain  of  a  certain  poem  inspired  by 
same  (head)  — a  refrain  which  ran  like  this: 

"  And  the  yellow  roses  hid  them  in  her  hair,  golden  hair, 
For  the  gold  of  yellow  roses  is  her  hair !  " 

Whereupon  I  denied  the  colour,  of  course,  con- 
tending that  yellow  hair  wras  no  more  true  yel- 
low than  was  red  hair  red,  these  tints  being 
merely  approximations;  but  he  kept  on  insist- 
ing until  finally  he  said  that,  with  my  permission, 
he  would  send  me  half  the  price  of  the  poem  in 
golden  roses  if  I  would  forfeit  a  curl  to  him  if 
he  proved  right,  which,  of  course,  I  promptly 
agreed  to  do.  See? 

So  I  understood  instantly  when  I  saw  him  lay 
the  roses  on  the  foot  of  the  cot  where  I  was  sup- 
posed to  be  sleeping  —  and  it  was  just  like  him 
to  do  it  impersonally  and  disappear,  and  not 
hang  around  for  thanks.  They  did  match,  Dear. 
I'll  tell  you  about  that  presently. 


94  THE     COCOON 

And  now,  of  course,  he  has  reason  to  believe  on 
evidence  that  I  conspicuously  gave  his  roses 
away.  I  saw  him  see  me  when  we  came  out  from 
supper  —  and  the  worst  of  it  is  I  may  never  ex- 
plain. 

Well,  when  I  got  into  the  parlour,  who  do  you 
suppose  came  rushing  up  to  me  most  effusively? 
Who  but  the  Butte,  herself,  a  great  giant  canary ! 
If  you'd  seen  her,  you'd  never  call  me  your  lit- 
tle canary  again.  She  looked  more  Amazonian, 
more.  Brobdingnagian  than  ever.  But  she's  a 
nice  woman,  Dear,  though  as  crazy  as  a  loon,  a§ 
you'll  see  presently,  and  your  wife  is  utterly  no 
good. 

She  had  come,  she  said,  "  to  tell  me  of  her 
joy,"  and  why  do  you  suppose?  Because,  for- 
sooth, I  was  the  only  person  in  this  place  who 
had  been  kind  to  her! 

Ye  gods!  Talk  about  coals  of  fire!  Your 
wife's  pate  is  charcoal.  It  is  true,  I  had  sym- 
pathised with  her  inwardly,  and  in  the  all-night 
flute  business, —  she's  better  of  that,  now  —  I 
never  let  on  to  any  one  here  how  it  kept  me 
awake.  But  I've  neglected  her  utterly,  which 
was  mean,  and  everybody  else  hating  her  for 


THECOCOON  95 

nothing.  Well,  maybe  she  felt  my  latent  sym- 
pathy, for  here  she  stood  looking  trustfully  into 
my  eyes  and  trying  to  tell  me  "  what  those  yellow 
roses  meant  to  her." 

Of  course,  knowing  the  truth  about  the  roses, 
this  frightened  me  a  little.  It  was  so  crazy! 
Did  you  ever  feel  your  knees  suddenly  give  way? 
Really,  between  fear  and  remorse,  I  felt  as  ill 
as  if  I'd  been  caught  stealing  —  a  sense  of  my 
crime  and  of  never-being-able-to-explain  over- 
whelming me.  For  a  second  even  speech  de- 
serted me,  but  before  I  knew  what  I  should  say 
or  do,  that  inner  something-or-other  which  comes 
to  our  rescue  when  life  is  altogether  too  hard, 
had  spoken  for  me,  and  in  a  tone  quite  reassur- 
ing, I  heard  it  say,  "  Do  tell  me  about  it !  " 

And  then,  affrighted  and  self -accusing,  before 
she  had  a  chance  to  tell  me  anything,  I  hastened 
to  assure  her  of  several  perfectly  obvious  things, 
the  only  one  that  I  clearly  recall  being  that  / 
was  not  half  so  good  as  I  looked.  You  see,  I 
was  on  a  blind  search  for  some  sort  of  sincerity 
and  the  devious  ways  of  deceit  were  really  new 
to  me.  If  I  stumbled,  is  there  any  wonder? 

Then,  to  make  matters  worse,  while  she  stood 


96  THE     COCOON 

there,  I  happened  to  see  the  little  joke-man, 
donor  of  the  roses  and  unconscious  conspirator 
with  me  in  this  pathetic  comedy,  watching  us 
from  behind  the  palms,  and  I  just  couldn't  stand 
it,  so  I  whispered :  "  Suppose  we  go  up  to  my 
room  and  have  a  little  talk." 

I  felt  as  if  I  were  taking  my  life  in  my  hands 
when  I  said  it,  too,  for  really,  she  seemed  utterly 
crazy  as  she  stood  there  hugging  those  roses ;  but 
I  said  to  myself,  "  If  she  murders  you  and  flings 
you  out  of  the  window  into  the  sea,  it's  good 
enough  for  you,  Blessy  Heminway!  And  she's 
the  one  to  do  it,  too ! " 

However,  we  were  both  laughing  when  we  went 
up,  and  when  I  had  turned  on  all  the  lights  and 
given  her  my  best  chair  and  laid  your  last  box 
of  chocolates  upon  her  lap,  her  delight  gave  me 
full  reward,  and  really,  sitting  there  in  her 
pretty  clothes,  she  seemed  less  dangerous. 

Then,  to  make  good  with  myself  by  one  gen- 
uine act,  I  showed  her  your  picture  and  told  her 
who  you  were!  Yes,  I  did,  really,  and  she  prom- 
ised never  to  tell  and  she  will  not.  I'm  sure  of 
it. 

She  was  very  sweet  about  it  all  —  said  she 


THE     COCOON  97 

was  really  glad  to  know  I  was  married  because 
I  would  better  understand.  Then  she  confided 
that  she  had  a  lover  "  a  stunnin'  fellow  —  t lie 
very  handsomest ! "  And  that  scared  me  to 
death  again  and  made  me  think  of  the  flute-play- 
ing and  what  the  nurse  had  said  which  I  hadn't 
believed  but  couldn't  quite  forget  —  that  the 
Brigand  was  her  fiance",  you  remember  —  and 
he  vowing  he  didn't  know  her  —  and  I  wished 
we  were  back  in  the  parlour,  alive. 

Poor  dear!  Somehow,  it  almost  broke  my 
heart  to  see  her  sitting  there  hugging  my  roses 
and  speaking  of  love.  Of  course,  I  had  no  idea 
what  the  connection  could  be,  in  her  mind,  be- 
tween the  imagined  lover  and  the  incidental,  ac- 
cidental roses,  but  I  could  wait  and  be  kind.  I 
could  have  done  that,  even  if  there  hadn't  been 
an  indescribable  poignant  note  of  feminine  ten- 
derness in  her  voice,  while  she  offered  me  what 
to  her  was  her  utmost  confidence. 

And,  Jack,  her  name  is  Daisy,  not  only  Daisy, 
but  Daisy  Butterfield  —  was  ever  name  more 
feminine?  —  and  she  sprang  upon  her  chair 
when  my  ball  of  knitting-silk  rolled  across  the 
floor,  and  she  thinks  woman  suffrage  "  positively 


98  THE     COCOON 

immodest."  So  she  confided  while  she  devoured 
your  chocolates  like  a  school-girl.  Thus,  with 
her  otherwise  masculine  proportions,  is  the  fem- 
inine balance  kept  true. 

And,  by  the  way,  she  says  this  is  her  third 
engagement,  both  the  others  having  been  broken 
by  mine  disasters;  and  she  blushingly  confided 
that  her  love  for  this  third  man,  after  romance 
had  seemed  gone  forever  out  of  her  life,  "  is  as 
ardent  as  a  young  girl's,"  which  was  pathetically 
naive.  By  the  way,  she's  only  twenty-nine,  ten 
years  less  than  my  guess,  but  brain  fever  fol- 
lowed by  nerve  wreckage  has  no  doubt  aged  her. 
Howrever,  as  she  sat  there,  feminized  by  dainty 
clothes  and  her  mood,  she  didn't  look  twenty- 
five,  and  I  told  her  so,  too.  It  isn't  often  pos- 
sible to  pay  her  a  compliment,  poor  soul. 

"  And  to  think  Tie's  coming! " 

Her  ejaculation  was  apropos  of  nothing,  but 
she  bent  her  lips  to  the  roses  as  she  threw  it  out, 
and  I  looked  around  swiftly  to  make  sure  there 
was  nothing  for  me  to  stumble  against,  in  case  I 
should  suddenly  have  to  run.  But  her  voice  was 
even  and  reassuring  as  she  went  on : 

"  He  always  sends  these  Persian  roses  ahead, 


THECOCOON  99 

to  prepare  me.  It's  the  symbol  of  our  mine, 
1  The  Golden  Rose.'  " 

Then,  presently,  she  added: 

"  But  what  gets  me  is  how  he  managed  to  get 
'em  to  me,  away  up  there  on  the  roof!  And  to 
niy  very  cot!  Ain't  it  too  romantic!  I  was 
tempted  to  quiz  Beauregard  Davis,  and  then  I 
wouldn't.  I'd  rather  make  believe  he  just 
wafted  'em  to  me.  He's  all  for  romance.  I've 
got  his  roses,  an'  that's  all  I  care  for."  And 
bending,  she  pressed  the  top  roses  of  her  corsage 
against  her  cheek,  tenderly,  caressingly. 

What  could  I  say  to  her?  After  an  absurd 
pause,  saved  only  by  the  chocolate  creams,  what 
I  really  did  say  was: 

"  When  do  you  expect  him?  " 

"  Any  minute,"  she  chuckled,  "  just  any  min- 
ute! I  almost  hesitated  to  come  up  with  you, 
for  fear  I'd  miss  him,  so  I  must  be  goinV 

And  with  a  friendly  glance  at  your  photograph 
as  she  rose,  she  added, 

"  Yours  is  real  nice  lookin',  awful  toney  but 
not  the  sort  I'd  suspect  you  of,  hardly.  I'd  look 
for  yours  to  have  on  goggles  and  a  bear  robe  and 
never  to  get  out  of  his  automobile." 


100  THE     COCOON 

"  He  has  the  glasses  and  the  fur  coat,"  I 
laughed,  "  and  the  car,  too,  but  he  gets  out  once 
in  a  while  to  have  his  picture  taken."  At  which 
she  rippled  merrily  and  started  off. 

"  So  has  mine !  "  she  called  back.  "  He's  got 
three  and  lots  of  pictures  taken  in  'em.  Oh, 
he's  great!" 

Then,  turning,  she  rushed  up  to  me,  drew  the 
locket  from  her  neck  and  showed  me,  what  do 
you  suppose?  The  Brigand's  picture,  as  I'm 
alive! 

And  now  she  really  was  gone,  a  tall  streak  of 
golden  happiness,  poor,  poor  dear!  I  was  so 
weak  for  a  moment  that  I  was  frightened.  Isn't 
it  awful!  But  her  visit,  tragic  as  it  was,  has 
done  me  good.  It  has  given  me  insight.  She's 
a  true,  unaffected  woman,  crazy,  of  course,  but 
a  serious  woman  and  good  and  loving  —  and  I'm 
a  mercurial  little  fraud.  But  I'm  going  to  be 
better.^  Wouldn't  it  be  great  if  she  really  had 
a  lover  and  he  should  happen  along  in  a  day  or 
so  —  or  if  she  were  to  die  to-night,  say,  in  all  her 
golden  glory,  before  she  has  to  realise  things! 

She  says  he's  to  be  allowed  to  come  when  the 
doctor  says  so,  and  surely  her  improved  ap- 


THE     COCOON  101 

pearance  in  the  parlour  last  night,  in  all  her 
radiance  and  roses,  ought  to  go  a  long  way,  that 
is,  assuming  that  she  knows  what  she's  talking 
about  at  all. 

"And  things  are  not  what  they  seem."  You 
knew  a  lot,  Mr.  Longfellow.  I  suppose  the  poets 
do  know.  Maybe  they  really  see  with  their  poet- 
eyes  things  too  fine  for  our  vision.  That  poor 
thing's  thanking  me  for  being  good  to  her  breaks 
me  up  terribly.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  I 
get  religion  before  I'm  done  with  it.  You  know 
remorse  is  the  first  symptom.  Now  I  realise 
something  of  the  comfort  our  poor  darkies  get 
out  of  their  mourners'  benches.  I'm  figuratively 
on  one,  this  minute. 

By  the  way,  I  sent  that  yellow  curl  to  the 
kindly  joke-man,  with  a  note  of  thanks  for  the 
flowers  "  which  through  an  unavoidable  mistake, 
did  not  reach  me,"  and  I  also  intimated  that  I 
should  trust  to  his  good  taste  not  to  refer  to 
them,  to  anybody.  And  did  I  tell  you  that 
Beauregard  Davis  brought  the  lost  curl  to  me 
that  same  night,  saying  he  had  found  it  on  the 
roof  and  he  "  thought  maybe  I'd  as  lief  not  have 
it  hung  up  in  the  ' lost-and-found  cabinet'  in 


102  THE9OCOON 

the  rotunda  "  ?  It  was  one  of  those  thirty -cent 
ones  which  always  seemed  to  amuse  you  so,  but 
in  the  circumstances,  I  thought  it  only  fair  to 
value  it  at  a  dollar  which  I  cheerfully  did,  not- 
withstanding the  posted  notices  against  tipping. 
I  am  a  weak  creature,  full  of  brave  resolves 
which  melt  at  the  turn  of  a  hair. 

I've  hardly  had  a  glimpse  of  the  Brigand  for 
days,  but  yesterday  I  saw  him  hanging  over  the 
roller  chair  of  Gipsy  Fournette,  the  prima  donna 
in  the  Houris  company,  you  remember.  She  goes 
by  the  name  of  Bradford  here,  but  I  knew  her  on 
sight.  So  would  any  New  Yorker.  It  seems 
she's  been  here,  in  retirement,  for  nearly  a  year 
and  is  just  emerging.  Her  hair  is  even  yellower 
than  mine  and  her  cheeks  far  redder.  She  looks 
more  like  a  hurrah  than  a  houri. 

I  felt  sorry  to  see  that  nearly  seven  feet  of 
artless  Success  bending  over  this  frail  sister. 
Such  a  big  moth  and  such  a  little  candle!  Al- 
though I've  never  seen  him  alone  or  had  a  mo- 
ment's tete-a-tete  with  him,  he  has  followed  me 
with  his  eyes  ever  since  that  first  day;  and 
when  he  knows  I'm  within  hearing,  he  talks  of 
"early  advantages,"  and  one  day  he  said  that 


THE     COCOON  103 

the  highest  ambition  of  his  life  was  to  marry  a 
woman  much  too  good  for  him.  "  If  I  married 
a  saint,"  and  he  glanced  at  me  when  he  said  it, 
"if  I  married  a  saint,  I'd  mate  money  enough 
to  build  a  cathedral  around  her." 

He  can't  talk  five  minutes  without  bringing 
in  money,  one  way  or  another.  And,  by  the 
way,  he  is  known  as  Col.  Copperthwaite.  When 
I  heard  it,  I  thought,  "  Why,  of  course.  How, 
could  he  have  been  named  anything  else,  or 
rank  otherwise  than  as  a  rank  brevet  colonel 
of  the  Pacific  slope !  " 

Well,  that  evening,  after  his  delivery  as  to 
marrying  a  saint,  he  asked  me  what  I  thought 
of  his  ambition,  assuming,  you  see,  that  I  had 
"  taken  notice." 

"  I  think  you  must  have  had  a  good  mother," 
I  answered  sincerely. 

"  How  did  you  know?  "  he  beamed,  and  then 
he  added  sadly,  "  Yes,  she  was  a  saint,  but  she 
had  no  cathedral." 

There  was  something  beautiful  in  his  face  as 
he  said  that!  There  is  much  that  seems  fine 
about  the  man,  and  he  is  so  refreshing,  after  our 
academic  types.  Even  his  going  from  one  re- 


104  THE     COCOON 

ligion  to  another  proves  him  a  fearless  seeker 
after  truth,  don't  you  think? 

And  I'm  quite  sure  he  is  artless  about  women. 
See  how  he  idealises  me,  for  instance,  just  be- 
cause I'm  little  and  innocent-looking ! 

An  hour  later. 

I'd  been  ordered  an  egg  phosphate  at  nine, 
and  it  came,  on  time,  via  blue  livery,  cap  and 
smile,  as  usual,  and  I've  taken  it  down  man- 
fully and  feel  delightfully  lifted.  It  was  pre- 
scribed for  soothing  and  sleep,  I  believe,  but 
I  suppose  a  good  and  biddable  medicine  just 
does  whatever  trick  is  required  of  it.  I  needed 
a  fillip  and  stamina,  and  I've  got  it,  and  I  feel 
as  if  I  could  write  all  night.  I've  got  a  good- 
and-tight  boudoir  cap  over  my  hair,  so  I'm  not 
afraid  of  the  bats. 

No  more  dates,  Beloved,  none  but  the  home- 
going  which  I  love  to  realise  —  four  days  hence 
—  when  I  go  ditto  (hence,  tra,  la!)  My  heart 
is  full  of  song  at  the  thought.  But  I'm  all  in  a 
tangle  yet  and  must  extricate  myself,  for  every- 
body's sake  —  for  my  own  dignity's  and  yours  — 
and  nations  yet  to  come,  as  I  love  to  repeat 


THE     COCOON  105 

Isn't  it  great  to  be  innocent,  though?  Inno- 
cent of  evil  intention,  I  mean.  I  try  to  take 
courage  in  that  thought,  and  recall  Socrates, 
"  Would  you  have  me  die  guilty?  " 

I've  been  a  fool,  and  it  has  led  me  through 
devious  motions  of  knavery,  but  God  knows 
my  heart.  We  are  all  innocent,  every  one  of  us, 
but  most  of  all,  the  crazy,  kindly  Butte  and 
the  inflated  but  ingenuous  Brigand.  His  highest 
ambition  is  to  be  a  gentleman.  It's  Inside  him 
and  has  only  to  work  its  way  out.  I'm  a  per- 
fect lady  on  my  giddy  outsides,  but  inwardly 
I'm  a  ravening  wolf,  whatever  ravening  is  —  or 
maybe  it's  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  that  I  am 
—  an  evil  force  warned  against  in  Holy  Writ. 

If  I've  hurt  anybody's  feelings  here,  it's  the 
Brigand's,  and  not  by  a  thing  but  consistent 
snubbing.  I've  never  even  bowed  to  him  un- 
less I  had  to.  Somehow  I've  been  nervous 
lest  he'd  embarrass  me  by  doing  something 
spectacular.  He  often  looks  as  if  he'd  fall  on  his 
knees  and  clap  his  hand  to  his  heart  if  I  looked 
his  way.  Others  have  noticed  it,  too  —  not  in 
exactly  these  words,  maybe.  But  now  I  begin 
to  think  perhaps  I've  been  mistaken. 


106  THE     COCOON 

He  is  just  a  case  of  sounding  brass  and  he  rec- 
ognises me  as  a  tinkling  cymbal  and  he  thinks 
we  are  in  the  same  class.  He  is  really  a  noisy 
Westerner  with  the  breadth  of  the  plains  and 
the  ruggedness  of  the  Rockies  expressed  in  a 
breezy  personality,  and,  while  he  had  lived  all 
over  the  world  in  spots  and  feels  himself  ultra- 
cosmopolitan,  he  is  quite  outside  the  culture 
currents,  even  brass-bound  and  nickel-plated, 
if  you  will,  but  plated  on  standard  copper,  like 
the  old  Sheffield  plate,  good  wearing  stuff. 

Children  and  dogs  go  to  him  on  sight  and  one 
of  his  favourite  roof  stunts  is  feeding  the  birds 
on  his  shoulders  and  they  do  come  and  seem  un- 
afraid. I  forget  just  where  he  hails  from, 
originally.  Of  course,  he  has  mentioned  it. 
He  mentions  everything.  Really,  I  can't  think 
of  any  subject  upon  which  he  has  not  spoken 
unless  it  is  the  Butte.  Of  her  he  says  not  a 
word,  although  he  must  know  of  her  delusion. 
And  I've  seen  him  regard  her  receding  figure 
with  a  strange  tenderness  which  seems  like  in- 
finite pity.  It  would  be  an  embarrassment  to 
almost  any  man  to  be  pursued  by  a  neurotic 
woman  who  believes  herself  his  fiancee,  and,  of 


107 

course,  reticence  is  his  only  role.  It  shows  that 
he  can  be  silent  when  he  will,  all  the  same. 

He's  been  in  the  Orient  a  great  deal  and  has 
a  lot  of  curious  Eastern  things,  they  say,  but 
he's  Western-American,  and  will  be  to  the  end 
of  time,  even  if  he  should  take  up  his  abode  in 
the  Far  East  and  practise  his  Buddhism  in 
Mandarin  robes  or  pajamas. 

And  he  thinks  me  a  saint,  and  it  breaks  my 
heart.  Never  again,  Jack!  I  couldn't  stand 
for  this  honest  ruffian  to  discover  my  frivolity 
and  yet  —  see  how  one  sin  leads  to  another !  — 
I'm  bent  upon  deceiving  just  one  more  time. 
Letting  him  know  about  you  is  nothing,  except, 
of  course,  that  I  want  him  always  to  believe  it 
was  a  misunderstanding  of  which  I  was  uncon- 
scious. You  know  it  was,  at  first. 

Would  it  be  fair  to  ask  God  to  help  me  out, 
do  you  think?  I  used  to  bring  God  into  all  my 
misbehaviours,  and  He  did  help  me,  because  I 
was  little.  Now  I'm  grown  up,  but  I'm  very 
little  yet.  I'm  going  to  try  Him.  He  can  only 
turn  me  down,  and  I  don't  believe  He  will,  not 
God! 

You  see,  He  made  me,  mischief  and  all,  and 


THE     COCOON 

He  must  understand  His  own  job.  I've  prayed 
a  lot  here,  Jack.  I've  had  so  much  time  in  the 
open,  facing  the  heavens  —  and  the  blue  sky,  the 
faint  stars  and  drifting  mists  and  all  the  wonder 
of  space  —  and  the  long  silences 

One  gets  a  clear  perspective  of  more  than  just 
scenery  from  the  roof  at  Seafair.  It  has  shown 
me  so  much —  our  lives  at  home,  yours  and 
mine,  since  the  very  beginning,  dear,  dear  Jack ! 

A  short  divorce  is  a  wholesome  thing,  once  in 
a  while,  I'm  sure ;  not  that  I  ever  want  another, 
but  this  will  bear  fruit  of  joy.  I've  been  lots 
and  lots  to  blame  for  things,  but  I  won't  grovel, 
at  this  distance. 

I  will  say,  though,  that  you  are  the  one  who 
is  justly  entitled  to  this  nervous  prostration  and 
all  the  indulgences  it  is  affording.  I  fear  I've 
been  a  mollusc,  but  I've  seen  myself  in  time  — 
seen  my  own  reflections  in  the  crystalline  waters 
of  your  devotion.  Excuse  my  faulty  metaphor. 
A  mollusc  would  have  to  hump  herself  to  get 
into  position  to  see  her  own  reflection  —  but  I 
can't  write  this  over,  and  besides,  I  want  that  in 
about  "  the  crystalline  waters  of  your  devotion." 


THE     COCOON  109 

I'd  never  get  that  off  again  so  well,  and  I  do 
mean  it. 

When  I  get  home,  you'll  be  trimming  around 
my  temperament  again,  before  you  know  it. 
Don't  do  it,  Dear.  Trim  the  temperament.  It 
needs  it.  Oh,  I'm  going  to  be  sweetest  ever,  after 
this,  see  if  I  don't! 

And  be  sure  to  bring 

No,  don't  bring  anything.  There'll  be  so  many 
things  to  take  away.  Yes,  fetch  along  all  the 
empty  valises  and  things  —  and  my  other  hat- 
box. 

P.  S. 

I've  decided  not  to  bother  the  Lord  about  it 
I'm  going  to  brace  up  and  be  a  woman  and  han- 
dle this  thing  myself.  I'm  not  a  squealer.  If 
I'd  prayed  going  in,  I  might  pray  to  get  out. 
Of  course,  I  am  praying,  but  it's  the  prayer  of 
the  jester,  "  God  be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! "  so 
do  I  abase  myself. 

I'm  going  down  to  the  dining-room  to  meet 
people  and  do  my  reverent  best  to  harmonise 
things.  This  will  probably  be  my  last  to  you  — 


110  THE     COCOON 

unless  you  postpone  your  coming  again,  which, 
for  gracious'  sake,  don't  —  and  I'm  so  afraid  I'm 
forgetting  something — — 

Oh,  yes,  your  cheque-book,  Jack,  dear.  Be 
sure  to  fetch  it  along.  I  went  to  the  antiquity- 
shop  just  one  more  time  —  and  it's  a  secret  till 
your  birthday  —  but  it's  a  dream ! ! !  And  now, 
adieu.  If  you  know  how,  do  send  up  a  prayer 
for  your  little  partner.  Oh,  if  you  could  waft 
me  vibrations  of  success!  I'd  do  almost  any- 
thing to  tranquillise  things  here.  I'd  gladly 
hoodoo  these  good  Christian  people  into  be- 
lieving I'm  not  a  pagan,  if  I  £ould.  Oh,  for 
some  magic,  some  magic! 

Your  lonely,  penitent,  crazy  but  sympathy- 
needing  and  ever  devoted 

BLESSY. 

Written  in  Diary: 

Well,  it's  gone,  dear  Bookie  —  an  hour  ago  — 
and  maybe  it's  just  as  well.  I  sent  it  because  I 
was  desperate  and  didn't  know  what  else  to  do, 
and  now,  oh,  my  heart!  Another  letter  from 
him,  no,  just  a  short  note  —  and  he's  ill  —  in  bed 
with  a  "  bad  cold,"  which  means  he's  down  with 


THE    COCOON  111 

pneumonia  or  incipient  tuberculosis  or  God 
knows  what ! 

It's  a  mercy  that  I  restrained  myself  and 
didn't  upbraid  him  —  and  maybe  have  his  sister 
Laura  reading  the  letter  to  him,  if  he  isn't  too 
ill  to  be  read  to.  I'd  almost  rather  know  Jack 
was  unfaithful  than  for  anybody  to  think  I 
thought  so,  especially  his  own  people,  confound 
'em!  I  couldn't  stand  that.  I  can't  stand  any 
of  it,  for  that  matter,  but  what  is  one  to  do  — 
when  the  worst  comes? 

Standing  a  thing  is  just  not  dying,  I  suppose. 
But  with  Jack  first  estranged  and  now  ill,  maybe 
dying  —  if  anything  else  happens  —  ?  But,  of 
course,  nothing  else  could  happen,  nothing  of 
consequence.  If  the  house  burned  down  and 
Laura  eloped  with  the  chauffeur  and  the  law- 
firm  of  Oglesby  and  Heminway  went  under,  and 
Jack  came  along,  well  and  smiling  and  all  this 
horror  were  wiped  out,  I'd  call  it  a  red  letter  day 
for  us.  That's  the  kind  of  blind  devotion  poor 
Jack  is  treading  under  foot. 

Dear,  dear!  Here  comes  my  dinner  tray, 
and  after  that,  I've  got  a  date  in  the  treatment 
room,  "  hot  dip  and  cold  spray,"  followed  by  salt 


112  THE     COCOON 

rub  by  a  fresh  masseuse,  I  suppose.  I  tell  you, 
Book-of-my-tedious-hours,  one  has  to  hustle  to 
keep  up  with  this  rest  routine. 

But  I  must  go,  for  "  food  taken  at  a  tempera- 
ture either  far  above  or  below  that  of  the  di- 
gestive organs  is  detrimental  to  the  strong  and 
occasionally  fatal  to  the  weak."  You  see,  I 
unconsciously  memorise  choice  bits  of  the  cir- 
culating literature  of  this  publishing  firm.  I've 
been  thinking  that  if  worse  came  to  worst,  I 
might  perhaps  get  a  job  as  editor  of  some  of  their 
pamphlets  and  things. 

You  are  a  great  comfort  to  me  now,  dear 
Book.  I  thought  I'd  tell  you  so.  It  seems  to 
bring  you  nearer,  just  telling  you.  You  see, 
you  are  all  I  have  now.  If  anything  were  to 
happen  here,  now,  anything  awful,  I  couldn't 
write  Jack,  for  he's  either  estranged  or  ill,  or 
both  —  or  maybe  on  his  way  here,  and  with  a 
divided  mind.  I  suppose  the  little  Carter  is 
expecting  him,  too,  confound  her! 

Two  hours  later. 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do?    What  shall  I  do?    A 


THE     COCOON  113 

note  from  that  sister-in-law  of  mine,  who  never 
writes  to  me  if  she  can  help  it,  and  she  says  not 
to  worry,  but  "  Jack  has  a  slight  cold  on  his 
chest "  and  asks  her  to  let  me  know  it  isn't  seri- 
ous, all  of  which  means,  of  course,  that  it's  as  bad 
as  can  be  and  they  are  getting  ready  to  break  the 
news  to  me  —  to  prepare  me  for  the  worst.  She 
says  Jack  will  probably  be  quite  well  before  I 
get  her  letter,  and  starting  to  me.  Of  course,  I 
know  what  that  means.  It  means  I'm  not  to 
rush  home  and  take  care  of  my  poor  sick  hus- 
band, and  nobody  knows  what  to  do  for  Jack  but 
me.  He  says  so  himself. 

I'm  half  tempted  to  just  get  up  and  go  home 
—  and  then,  like  as  not  by  the  time  I'd  get  to 
New  York,  he'd  be  either  dead  or  here  —  and  I 
suppose  that's  just  what  he  and  little  Hell-hounds 
are  scheming  for.  Yes,  I  will  call  her  that,  too ! 
I  didn't  name  her.  She  named  herself,  and  when 
I  say  it,  it's  a  quotation :  "  Hell-hounds !  "  Fine 
language,  that,  for  a  lady ! 

Fleas  and  bats  and  brigands  and  somnam- 
bulists and  now,  hell-hounds!  I  tell  you,  little 
Book,  this  rest  cure  is  great !  Now  I  know  what 


114  THE     COCOON 

"the  survival  of  the  fittest"  really  means.  It 
means  _that  if  I  come  through  this  alive,  I'll'  be 
fit  for  anything! 

Next  morning. 
My  dear  Husband: 

I  think  I  am  going  mad  and  I  know  I'm  going 
to  die;  and  before  delirium  sets  in,  I  must  write 
you.  I'd  like  to  go  out  of  life  writing  to  you. 
I  may  not  keep  sane  long  enough  to  finish  this 
letter,  but  if  I  don't  and  they  find  me  raving  or 
dying,  you'll  see  that  I  went  out  thinking  of  you. 

I  haven't  slept  a  wink  all  night  —  not  a  wink. 
I  saw  a  bat  fly  all  around  my  room  and  I  didn't 
even  cover  my  head.  I  kept  hoping  he  would 
come  and  nestle  in  my  hair  and  claw  me  to 
death,  but  although  he  would  sometimes  swoop 
down  nearly  to  touching,  he  finally  flapped  harm- 
lessly out  of  the  window  into  the  night.  Then 
a  thunder  shower  came  up  and  I  lay  still  and 
prayed  God  to  strike  me  dead,  and  He  wouldn't. 
He  didn't  pay  the  slightest  attention  to  me.  I 
haven't  eaten  any  breakfast  and  I'm  not  going  to 
eat  any  dinner  or  supper  or  anything  more,  if  I 
can  help  it,  so  that  I  may  get  off  your  hands 
with  as  little  trouble  as  possible. 


THE     COCOON  115 

My  heart  is  broken  and  so,  what's  the  use? 
I've  found  out  everything,  Jack,  and  I  don't 
blame  you.  Things  are  as  they  are.  A  married 
man  is  either  immune  when  it  comes  to  other 
women,  or  he  isn't.  Many  are  not,  but  a  few 
are,  or  I  supposed  they  were,  but  maybe  I've  been 
mistaken.  I  thought  you  were  until  —  until  I 
found  out,  three  days  ago.  And  since  then,  I've 
been  trying  to  steady  myself  and  get  my  bear- 
ings. 

That  last  letter  which  you'll  have  some  time 
before  this  reaches  you,  was  written  before  I 
knew,  of  course.  I  knew  before  I  sent  it,  but  I 
was  too  heart-sick  to  write  another  —  and  so  I 
just  let  it  go.  Nothing  mattered  then. 

As  I've  just  said,  I  don't  reproach  you.  A 
man  is  true  or  untrue,  and  when  he  was  true 
yesterday  and  is  untrue  to-day,  it  doesn't  do  any 
good  to  sigh  for  yesterday. 

And  if  he  is  faithful  for  five  years  and  then  be- 
gins to  deceive,  it  seems  fair  to  suppose  he  is 
facing  round  for  a  five  years'  retreat.  Like  the 
king  of  France,  having  marched  up  the  hill,  he 
marches  down  again  —  a  royal  masculine  per- 
formance. 


116  T  H  E     C  O  C  O  O  N 

I  wouldn't  mind,  Jack,  if  I  could  stand  it,  but 
I  can't.  Of  course,  I  don't  know  why  you  sent 
me  here,  under  her  very  nose,  and  then  were  not 
satisfied  until  you  had  fairly  pushed  me  into  her 
presence,  unless  this  was  your  way  of  letting  me 
know  how  things  are.  But  the  method  doesn't 
matter.  I  know  now,  and  I  am  so  ill  and  you 
are  so  ill 

A  perfectly  absurd  thing  has  just  this  moment 
happened.  My  mail-bag  brought  me  no  letter 
from  you,  but  out  of  it  dropped  into  my  hand 
one  for  her  in  your  handwriting.  Isn't  there 
some  old  proverb  about  a  man  living  a  double  life 
needing  to  employ  two  kinds  of  stationery,  and 
to  keep  them  apart?  If  there  isn't,  there  ought 
to  be. 

Of  course,  I  excuse  your  writing  me  on  that 
blue  office  paper  with  the  imprint  of  the  firm 
upon  the  envelopes,  but  I'd  hardly  think  you'd 
offer  this  to  —  well,  to  a  lady  with  whom  your 
relations  were  less  informal,  so  to  speak. 

No  doubt  it  was  an  accident,  my  getting  her 
letter,  and  she  may  have  one  intended  for  me  and 
be  chuckling  or  turning  pale  over  its  contents 
now,  but  that  wouldn't  worry  me  in  the  least. 


THE     COCOON  117 

Some  of  your  letters  to  your  wife  might  be  good 
medicine  for  her  —  especially  the  one  which  de- 
scribes her  as  a  friend's  friend  whom  you  do  not 
personally  know. 

I  can't  send  your  letter  over  to  her  imme- 
diately without  exciting  curiosity,  but  the  first 
time  I  go  down  to  the  rotunda  —  one  has  to  dress 
to  go  there  —  I'll  drop  it  with  others  into  the 
box,  and  it  will  reach  her  in  due  course.  I  hope 
you  won't  mind  the  delay.  If  I  should  hand  it 
to  one  of  these  nurse  patrols,  with  instructions 
to  drop  it  into  the  box,  the  chances  are  she  would 
read  the  address  and  decide  to  deliver  it  in  per- 
son, and  there'd  be  explanations.  The  nurses 
seize  any  excuse  to  go  into  her  suite,  just  to  look 
at  her  and  see  her  clothes. 

She  had  on  a  Paquin  model  the  first  time  I 
called  and  a  Doeuillet  the  last  time  —  you  see, 
I  know  clothes.  And  I  don't  have  to  notice  other 
women's  gowns.  My  mind  photographs  them  for 
me  and  I  look  them  over  at  my  leisure. 

She  dresses  like  a  princess,  of  course  you  know, 
although  she  wears  no  jewels  —  which  also,  of 
course  you  know,  and  which  is  in  excellent  taste 
in  a  place  like  this. 


118  T  H  E     C  O  C  O  O  N 

But  I  began  this  letter  in  quite  another  mood 
than  this,  Jack,  and  the  comedy  of  my  intercept- 
ing your  mail  jolted  me  out  of  things  for  the 
moment.  And  now  a  sharp  pain  in  my  heart  is 
jolting  me  back.  You  know  my  only  escape 
from  trouble  is  in  frivolity.  But  all  this  is  so 
trivial  in  the  face  of  the  tragedy  which  confronts 
me. 

I  began  by  telling  you  I  was  going  to  die  — 
and  I  am.  When  I  wrote  that,  I'd  just  had  a  let- 
ter from  Laura  saying  you  were  ill  and  couldn't 
write,  and  it  seemed  a  question  as  to  which  of 
us  would  go  first.  Now,  I  find  you  to  be  actively 
alive  —  and  the  situation  is  much  simplified.  . 

I  shall  be  the  one  to  die  and  you  will  have 
your  desire.  If  you  had  been  the  one  to  go,  I'd 
have  had  nothing,  so  this  is  best.  Oh,  yes,  I 
know  what  I  am  saying.  You  see,  my  heart, 
while  sound  enough,  has  never  been  very  strong 
and  I've  always  realised  that  this  sort  of  thing 
would  kill  me. 

Anything  with  you,  Jack  —  poverty,  sickness, 
disgrace  even —  But  this 

Only  three  days  I've  known  it  and  my  heart 
hurts  all  the  time  and  I  can't  draw  a  deep 


THE     COCOON  119 

breath  without  catching.  At  first  it  would 
hurt  only  when  I  dwelt  on  things  or  cried  too 
hard;. then,  when  the  nightmarishness  of  it  all 
passed  and  the  fact,  just  the  Awful  Fact,  lay  like 
a  leaden  weight  within  me  —  a  resident  anguish, 
at  home  within  my  broken  heart  —  the  dull  sod- 
den pain  settled  down  with  it,  and  it  never  goes. 
I've  got  it  now,  just  the  blind  ache.  When  any 
new  grief  comes,  or  phase  of  grief,  like  your  get- 
ting Laura  to  write  me  for  you  and  your  writing 
the  Carter  yourself,  something  quick  and  sharp 
happens,  as  if  a  bladed  corkscrew  gave  just  one 
twist  in  my  heart  —  then  the  old  ache,  a  com- 
parative relief,  comes. 

You  know  my  grandmother  died  on  being 
roused  from  her  sleep  by  a  cry  of  "  Yankees ! " 
in  New  Orleans  during  the  war,  and  father  went 
suddenly,  too,  and  it's  a  good  way  to  go. 

And  so,  now,  before  things  go  too  far  with 
me,  I  want  to  tell  you,  Jack,  that  while  all  this 
is  a  mystery  which  I  don't  even  try  to  under- 
stand, I  must  put  it  aside  long  enough  to  tell 
you  how  happy  I  have  been  these  blissful  five 
years,  for  surely  five  years  of  heaven  ought  to 
outweigh  the  eternity  of  hell  of  these  three  days. 


120  T  H  E     C  0  C  O  O  N 

I  am  sure  no  other  woman  has  been  quite  so 
blessed  as  I;  no  living  husband  has  ever  been 
so  dear  to  any  other  wife,  as  you  have  to  me  — 
so  patient,  so  forgiving,  so  generous,  so  ever-re- 
membering of  me,  so  forgetful  of  self,  so  able, 
so  resourceful,  so  adaptable,  so  competent. 

Don't  think  that  I  fail  to  realise  how  you've 
even  mothered  me  in  my  peevish  days,  as  if 
I'd  been  a  sick  baby  —  and  you've  been  a  very 
prince  of  lovers  all  the  time  that  your  care  and 
protection  as  a  husband  of  faculty  have  sur- 
rounded and  pillowed  me.  When  I've  giddily 
referred  to  your  "  genius  for  Husbandry,"  I 
meant  it  to  its  farthest  reach,  Dear,  and  in  all 
seriousness. 

You've  humoured  me  to  my  hurt  sometimes 
and  to  your  own  undoing  —  and  through  it  all, 
with  no  self-consciousness  or  self-righteousness 
or  self  anything,  you've  set  me  a  standard  of  no- 
bility. You've  been  my  model  of  all  that  is 
strong  and  gentle  and  kind. 

Everything  you've  been  to  me,  Jack  —  knight, 
lover,  chum,  comrade,  husband  —  yes,  you've 
even  been  my  baby,  when  you've  been  sick.  And 
now  I  see  why  it's  best  that  we've  had  no  other. 


THE     COCOON  121 

A  child  now  would  complicate  things  dread- 
fully. 

As  it  is,  I'll  slip  away  —  and  this  anguish  will 
be  over.  Not  that  I  am  going  by  choice.  It's 
this  pain  —  and  the  catching  —  and  the  wide- 
awake-all-nights  and  the  sense  of  letting  go! 
It's  this  knowledge  of  approaching  death  which 
in  a  way  gives  you  back  to  me,  just  for  this  lit- 
tle while.  And  for  this  brief  space  you  shall  be 
all  mine.  I  shan't  mail  this  letter  to  you,  or  any 
others  I  may  write  in  the  little  time  left  us. 
They'll  be  here  when  I  go  —  and  you'll  under- 
stand. 

I  don't  want  to  put  you  on  the  defensive  and 
go  in  for  recriminations  or  anything  sad. 
There's  nothing  to  be  said.  It  isn't  as  if  I  were 
accepting  wretchedness  on  circumstantial  evi- 
dence. You  see,  I  have  documentary  proof  in 
my  pocket,  this  minute,  but  I  care  so  little  for 
such  as  that  that  I  shall  pass  it  along  as  soon  as 
I  can.  Why  should  I  want  to  prove  things  that 
are?  It's  bad  enough  to  know  them. 

Another  reason  I  don't  want  to  write  you 
about  it  now  is  that  I  can't  spare  one  of  your 
caressing:  letters  while  I'm  so  ill.  Even  if  I 


122  THE     COCOON 

were  going  to  get  better,  I'd  say  love  me  now  and 
do  everything  sweet  for  me  till  I'm  well,  and 
then  we'll  see  what  to  do.  And  of  course  now  I 
need  love  still  more. 

Two  Hours  Later: 

After  Lunch. 
My  dear  Husband: 

God  knows  what  is  happening!  Oh,  if  only 
you  were  here!  My  little  suite  is  a  bower  of 
roses,  about  a  car-load  —  brides'  roses,  mainly, 
and  maidenhair  ferns  and  orchids  —  hundreds 
of  orchids  —  and  white  carnations  and  about  a 
mile  of  Bermuda  lilies!  This  ba^h-tub  is  full 
of  flowers  again.  And  that  isn't  the  worst. 
There's  a  white  satin  box  of  fresh  orange  flow- 
ers, packed  in  cotton. 

At  first,  I  was  sure  it  was  a  mistake,  but  I've 
scanned  the  address  and  its  unequivocal,  "  Sea- 
fair  Kest  Cure,  Seafair,  Va.,  Suite  99,  Hemin- 
way,"  so  what  could  I  say?  It  took  two  porters 
and  a  trained  nurse  half  an  hour  to  fetch  them 
in  —  three  elevator  loads.  Of  course,  seeing  I 
was  in  for  it,  I  put  on  my  casual  expression  and 
directed  them  where  to  place  them,  quite  as  if 
it  were  an  ordinary  occurrence.  /  had  to. 


THE    COCOON  123 

But  I'm  in  some  deadly  trouble,  Jack.  Sup- 
pose it's  the  Brigand!  Not  that,  of  course,  and 
yet  somebody  is  expecting  me  to  marry  him !  If 
it  were  our  wedding  anniversary,  I'd  almost  sus- 
pect you  if  things  were  not  as  they  are  with  you, 
though  I'd  know  your  mind  had  given  way  under 
the  strain  I've  put  you  to  —  or  else  you'd 
"  struck  it  rich."  There  are  hundreds  of  dol- 
lars' worth  of  flowers,  yes,  thousands,  maybe. 

Later  —  God  knows  the  hour,  I  don't. 

I've  been  around  locking  at  the  flowers  again. 
Everything  is*  full  of  them.  Even  the  mantel  is 
heaped  with  green  coils,  miles  of  smilax  rope, 
and  all  around  the  walls  open  boxes  of  roses 
make  a  dado,  meeting  the  floor;  and  the  air  is  so 
suffocating  with  the  musky  smell  of  the  Easter 
lilies  that  I  came  near  fainting  in  leaning  over 
them  to  decipher  a  card;  but  when  I  did  finally 
make  it  out,  the  words  "  Cathedral  Altar," 
brought  me  to,  more  quickly  than  smelling-salts. 

My  heart  seemed  to  stop.  Strange  to  say, 
though,  the  exigency  of  things  stimulated  me. 
It  wasn't  at  all  like  my  sorrow-pain  —  and  it 
isn't  now,  although  I  am  frightened  to  death  and 


124  THE     COCOON 

something  inside  me  keeps  shrieking  "  Cathedral 
altar ! "  in  the  voice  of  the  Brigand.  Really,  it 
sounds  like  —  could  it  be  —  can  it  be  he?  And 
all  this  squanderous  spending  of  money  is  fear- 
fully like  his  talk. 

If  it  is,  he's  crazy  —  and  this  is  an  insane  asy- 
lum. Maybe  I'm  crazy.  They  never  know 
themselves.  I  was  just  about  to  shriek  for  help, 
when  I  stumbled  over  a  little  box  tied  with  a 
white  ribbon.  I  don't  know  how  I  got  it  open, 
my  hands  shook  so,  but  before  I  knew  it,  I  was 
gazing  as  one  dazed  at  an  absurd  bit  of  statuary, 
done  in  white  paste  —  sugar,  maybe  —  a  minia- 
ture bride  standing  in  a  miniature  cathedral, 
awaiting  her  man  at  the  altar  and  the  whole 
glistening  with  flakes  of  isinglass  or  something. 

I  tell  you,  Jack,  if  the  card  made  me  suspi- 
cious, this  convinced  me. 

"  Sure  as  you're  born,  Blessy  Heminway,"  I 
gasped,  "  it's  the  Brigand.  You've  got  a  maniac 
on  your  hands !  " 

And  with  that,  feeling  so  helpless  and  alone, 
and  you,  my  only  stay  on  earth,  so  far,  far,  far 
away,  I  broke  down  utterly  and  cried  as  chil- 
dren cry,  and  I  was  afraid  somebody  would  hear 


THE     COCOON  125 

me,  and  a  blue-dressed  nurse  would  be  coming  in 
with  a  valerian  cocktail,  an  attentive  way  they 
have  here  when  there's  too  much  emotional  noise 
in  a  room,  so  they  say. 

So  I  went  to  my  seaward  window  and  let  the 
wind  blow  over  me,  and  got  quiet,  but  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do,  where  to  go.  The  roof  would 
mean  complications,  and  there  was  something 
funereal  in  this  roomful  of  flowers.  I  felt  I 
must  get  out,  so  I  rang  and  ordered  a  carriage 
at  four,  for  the  afternoon.  Then,  seeing  that  I 
had  time  to  spare,  I  lay  down  in  the  breeze,  and 
covered  my  head,  hoping  to  get  a  wink  of  sleep, 
and  I  must  have  slept  over  an  hour  when  I  was 
lifted  to  my  feet  by  a  sharp  rap  at  the  door. 

The  carriage  was  waiting. 

I  seem  to  rally  to  exigency,  thanks  be,  and 
after  two  or  three  gasps  and  a  hard  swallow,  I 
was  able  to  say  into  the  crack  of  the  door  which, 
in  sheer  bravado,  I  cautiously  opened  that  far : 

"  I  am  sorry  not  to  have  recalled  my  order  in 
time,  but  I've  changed  it  till  to-morrow  —  same 
hour,  please." 

The  evenness  of  my  own  voice  reassured  me, 
and  when  I  thought  over  what  I  had  said,  I  felt 


126  THE     COCOON 

that  I  could  hardly  have  done  better,  as,  if  they 
had  sniffed  a  sensation  in  this  flower  business, 
they'd  see  that  I  counted  on  being  here  to-mor- 
row, anyway. 

Then  I  went  to  the  mirror  and  looked  at  my- 
self, and  my  face  frightened  me.  It  was  pinched 
and  green  and  red-spotted  and  awful.  So  I 
went  to  the  bath-room  and  bathed  it  in  hot  and 
cold  water  and  came  back  and  rubbed  in  cold 
cream  and  rubbed  it  out  again,  over  and  over, 
for  I  don't  know  how  long.  I'd  probably  be 
standing  there  yet,  rubbing  in  cold  cream,  if  I 
hadn't  been  startled  out  of  myself  by  a  voice  at 
the  door  softly  whispering,  "  Please  let  me  in. 
It's  only  me,  Daisy  Butterfield,"  that  it  took  me 
a  moment  to  realise  in  this  impersonation  of 
meekness  the  incongruous  personality  of  the 
Butte. 

Of  course,  I  couldn't  let  her  in,  but  I  didn't 
have  to.  If  Daisy  Butterfield  had  timidly  pled 
for  admittance,  the  Butte  of  Montana,  finding 
the  door  "  on  the  latch,"  strode  in  with  Ama- 
zonian tread,  blurting  her  hearty  apology  : 

"Don't  mind  me.    I  just  had  to  come  in. 


THE     COCOON  127 

I've  got  great  news!"  And  she  flourished  an 
open  letter  in  my  face.  "  He's  on  the  way, 
nearly  here  —  called  to  New  York  unexpectedly 
—  and  he  says  I've  got  to  marry  him  to-night ! 
Do  you  hear?  To-night!  And  he  ain't  a  man 
to  oppose,  either!  I  wouldn't  have  one  that 
was !  And  that  ain't  all !  " 

She  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
and,  turning  around,  she  waved  her  long  arm, 
taking  in  the  whole  place : 

"  It's  these  flowers  that  brought  me  here.  Of 
course,  everybody's  talking.  They  think  you're 
going  to  be  married,  but,  you  see,  I  know  better, 
an'  so  — " 

Coming  quite  up  to  me,  she  laid  her  hand  upon 
my  arm  and  looking  me  squarely  in  the  face, 
she  demanded: 

"  Do  you  know  whose  flowers  these  are,  Mis' 
Heminway?" 

Then,  seeing  that  I  hesitated,  she  went  on : 

"  Because,  you  know,  they  are  weddin'  flowers. 
1  How  did  I  find  out?  '  Why,  everybody  knows 
it.  It's  the  giggle  of  the  roof!  And  what's 
more,  they  come  from  Thorler's  in  New  York.  I 


128  THE     COCOON 

didn't  hear  that.  I  saw  some  of  the  boxes  and 
I'd  know  a  Thorler  flower-box  from  here  to  the 
sand-sopper's  beach.  I've  had  too  many !  " 

Then  hesitating  to  gain  breath,  she  changed 
her  tone: 

"  Of  course,  Mis'  Heminway,  you  know  my 
name's  Butterfield,  not  Buttinsky,  and  I  don't 
want  to  butt  in  on  any  of  your  private  affairs, 
but Why  don't  you  say  something  dear  lit- 
tle lady?  I'm  as  good  as  a  whole  clam-bed  for 
secrecy,  so  don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me  anything. 
And  look  at  me!  Fairly  glorified  with  joy  and 
my  Beloved's  roses,  an'  him  on  the  way  —  and 

this  precious  letter  —  and Honey,  darling 

innocent  little  lady-baby,  why  don't  you  say 
something  You  know  what  I  think,  don't  you?  " 
And,  in  a  great  Ellen  Terry  whisper  she  blurted : 
"They're  mine!  That's  whose  roses  they  are! " 

Of  course,  it  was  stupid  of  me,  but  until  she 
came  out  with  this,  I  never  suspected  what  she 
was  driving  at.  My  submerged  mind,  diving  on 
a  still  hunt  for  a  clue  to  the  mystery,  could  not 
take  in  any  other  thought  than  that  she  was 
vaguely  wondering,  as  I  had  done,  which  of  the 


THE     COCOON  129 

fool  men  around,  believing  me  unmarried,  had 
lost  his  head. 

But  here  was  light.  Not  clear  light,  surely, 
for  I  knew  she  was  crazy  —  on  this  one  subject 
if  on  no  other  —  but  any  light  was  better  than 
the  darkness  in  which  I  had  been  groping. 

I  knew  whose  yellow  roses  she  was  cherishing 
—  her  somnambulistic  pursuit  of  the  Brigand 
was  too  recent  to  forget,  and  yet  —  here  was  co- 
here ice,  surely,  and  freely  brandished  docu- 
mentary evidence;  for  she  still  held  the  open 
letter  aloft. 

Of  course,  I  wanted  to  ask  her  to  let  me  see  it, 
but  there  are  some  things  one  can't  quite  do. 
But  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  it  until  a  faint  illumi- 
nation led  me  to  ask,  "  What  is  the  date  of  his 
letter?  "  whereupon  she  laid  it  open  in  my  hand, 
shouting,  as  she  did  so,  "  Why,  it's  six  days  old, 
as  you  can  see  for  yourself,  and  should  have 
been  here  yesterday  morning!  That's  why  I'm 
not  havin'  the  twenty-four  hours'  notice  he  prom- 
ised me,  no  matter  what  happened." 

Then,  seeing  that,  after  corroborating  the  date, 
I  had  properly  turned  from  it,  she  urged : 


130  THE     COCOON 

"  Bead  it.  Read  his  letter  through  —  to 
please  me! " —  and  blushing  as  a  young  girl,  she 
added :  "  And  see  what  he  calls  me,  and  how  he 
signs  himself,  if  you  want  to  get  warmed  up !  " 

So  bidden,  did  I  read  his  letter,  from  start  to 
finish,  and  from  the  first,  strong  strokes  to  the 
last,  I  read  as  straightforward,  coherent  and  ten- 
der a  love-letter  as  even  you  ever  wrote,  Jack. 

This  satisfied  me,  so  far  as  I  could  be  satisfied. 
Surely  her  lover  was  sane,  and  it  was  fair  to  sup- 
pose he  knew  what  he  was  doing.  Still,  I'm 
nothing  if  not  conservative.  The  cards  were 
still  in  my  hand  and  I  would  not  play  one  un- 
advisedly. 

When  first  the  full  meaning  of  her  visit 
dawned  upon  me,  I  wanted  to  embrace  the  great 
yellow  creature,  as  far  around  as  my  little  arms 
would  go.  Still,  although  my  heart  had  sud- 
denly become  a  harp  and  joy  was  playing  a  song 
of  deliverance  over  its  strings,  my  voice  was  quite 
like  that  of  a  lady  casually  addressing  a  visitor 
when  I  said,  taking  her  arm  and  drawing  her  to 
a  chair, 

"  Come,  sit  down,  Dear,  and  let's  talk  it  over. 


THE     COCOO-N  131 

Why  do  you  think  these  are  your  flowers?  And, 
if  yours,  why  were  they  sent  to  me?  " 

"  '  Why? '  Why  gracious  sakes  alive,  can't 
you  see?  Ain't  my  intended  coming  here  to 
marry  me  to-night  f  And  ain't  these  brides'  flow- 
ers? —  from  A  to  izzard?  " 

"  Sent  to  me,  all  the  same,  dear  girl.  Why  to 
me?  Your  young  man  may  be  a  Greek  god,  but 
it  would  take  one  with  full  divining  power  to 
know  that  he  might  safely  bestow  flowers,  de- 
signed for  a  clandestine  wedding,  to  the  room  of 
a  lady  he  has  never  seen  —  whose  name,  even,  he 
has  never  heard." 

"  Never  heard  your  name?  Don't  go  so  fast, 
dear  lady !  He  knows  all  about  you,  bless  your 
sweet  heart.  Do  you  suppose  I've  sent  him  a  let- 
ter every  day  of  my  life  since  I've  been  in  this 
pleggonned  place,  and  not  described  the  one 
bright  thing  in  it?  Why,  do  you  know  what  I 
call  you  in  my  letters  to  him?  My  Little  Oasis. 
It's  my  name  for  you.  I've  written  it  so  many 
times  that  I  just  write  L.  O.  now,  and  he  under- 
stands. So  you  can  see  what  you've  been  to  me, 
in  this  desert  of  Sahara!  Why,  I've  never 


132  THE     COCOON 

caught  your  eye  in  my  life,  since  we've  first 
passed  each  other  in  the  corridors,  that  you 
haven't  smiled  at  me,  like  as  if  we  might  be 
friends  —  and  it  has  given  me  courage. 

"  But  I  haven't  told  him  you  were " —  she 
whispered  the  word,  "married.  I  ain't  that 
sort.  No,  but  it's  about  all  I  haven't  told  him 
about  you.  He  knows  every  dress  you've  got  and 
your  hats  and  parasols.  Even  the  way  you  re- 
ceive your  mail,  in  a  locked  bag,  sent  special. 
I  told  him  that  just  because  it  was  so  romantic, 
and  there's  so  little  romantic  to  tell  here? 

"  So,  you  see,  he's  plannin'  to  arrive  here  this 
evenin' " 

"Of  course,"  I  said  at  last,  almost  in  tears 
over  her  loyalty,  "  of  course,  of  course." 

Really  my  whole  soul  was  in  a  broad  grin,  and, 
strange  to  say,  in  all  this  emotional  excitement, 
my  heart  seemed  better,  if  anything. 

I  needn't  say  I  was  nice  to  the  poor  thing,  now 
that  I  was  quite  sure,  and  I  did  all  I  could  to 
make  amends  for  my  hesitation. 

"  Certainly,  they're  yours,  my  dear,"  I  assured 
her,  over  and  over.  "  It's  as  plain  as  day  —  and 
now,  I  don't  mind  confessing,  it  is  a  certain  re- 


THE     COCOON  .133 

lief  to  know  it.  And  aren't  they  wonderful? 
Let's  go  and  look  them  over !  "  And,  taking  her 
hand,  I  led  her  to  the  bath-tub.  To  tell  the 
truth,  it  wasn't  easy  to  handle  the  situation  cas- 
ually and  I  did  almost  blurt  out  "  Thank  God ! " 
when  we  came  to  the  bride  in  the  cathedral,  and 
I  realised  my  severed  connection  with  her. 

While  we  stood  together  thus  and  she  was  hug- 
ging and  kissing  "  the  cunnin'  little  thing,"  a 
card  was  handed  in  "  for  Miss  Butterfield,"  and 
seizing  it  and  gasping  "  It's  him ! "  she  rushed 
away ;  but  turning  suddenly  at  the  door  she  came 
back,  lifted  me  in  her  great  arms  and  danced 
with  me  all  over  the  room,  until  finally,  kissing 
me,  on  my  hair,  my  cheek,  my  hand,  she  set  me 
down  on  my  feet  and  left  me  without  a  word, 
her  face  deluged  with  tears. 

I  couldn't  have  been  more  honoured  if  I'd 
founded  an  asylum  or  despatched  a  cargo  of 
trained  nurses  to  a  battle-field.  Some  of  us 
women  are  so  overpaid  for  easy  good-will,  while 
others  who  agonise  and  strive  go  unrewarded  to 
their  graves.  Oh,  Jack ! 

But  returning  to  the  Butte  and  her  romance, 
her  young  man  is  certainly  doing  handsomely 


134  THE     COCOON 

by  her.  We've  been  to  lots  of  smart  weddings, 
you  and  I,  and  I've  never  seen  so  much  money 
expressed  in  wedding  flowers,  in  my  life,  never. 

And  would  you  believe  it?  I'm  as  weak  as  a 
kitten,  now  the  panic  is  over  and  my  temples 
throb  like  sledge-hammers. 

Oh,  for  the  old  joy  that  is  dead!  If  only  all 
this  cloud  were  blown  away,  and  you  were  here 
to  take  me  in  your  arms  as  the  happy  Butte  did, 
and  dance  with  me  —  and  even  scold  me  for  any 
old  thing! 

My  heart  was  better  as  long  as  the  cyclonic 
comedy  of  the  flowers  made  me  forget  —  but 
now,  the  old  pain !  —  for  the  sun  of  my  life  is 
gone  out,  and,  oh,  oh,  oh!  —  the  sudden  dart! 
The  knife  pain ! 

It  was  your  intercepted  letter  —  in  my  pocket. 
My  hand  ran  against  it,  and  it  cut  all  the  terrible 
truth  into  my  consciousness 'afresh. 

But  I  must  be  brave  —  till  you  come  —  or  till 
the  end.  I  am  so  ill  again,  Jack.  It's  as  if  I 
saw  you  pulling  back  while  fate  forces  you  to 
come  to  me.  Maybe  death  will  be  kind,  and 
come  quickly. 

I  must  try  for  some  sleep.     It's  early  yet,  and 


THE     COCOON  135 

they'll  not  be  getting  these  flowers  out  till  after 
dark,  anyway  —  and  I  am  so  sickened  with  the 
Bermudas.  I'd  go  to  the  roof  if  I  dared,  but  I 
can't  show  up  there  as  a  prospective  bride. 

I  wish  I  dared  try  a  disguise.  I  believe  I  will. 
I've  got  lots  of  things  I  haven't  worn  here  — 
that  grass-green,  gold-spotted  veil  you  bought  for 
your  already-too-loud-looking  wife,  poor  artless 
Jack;  and  that  pongee  parasol  that  I  put  away 
the  day  I  came  just  because  I  counted  s'teen  like 
it  on  the  roof.  And  there's  that  awful  linen  dus- 
ter. 

I'm  going  to  do  it,  and  I'll  pull  on  those  long 
yellow  near-chamois  gloves  your  well-meaning 
sister  Laura  gave  me  as  a  parting  thrust  —  a 
hundred  pairs  on  the  roof  this  minute  —  and  I'll 
climb  into  a  cot  and  stay  there  until  I  get  tired 
of  it,  and  maybe,  by  the  grace  of  God,  I  may  get 
a  little  sleep,  although  I  feel  as  if  I'd  never  close 
my  eyes  again. 

"  Yes,  and  I'll  take  my  writing-pad  with  me, 
like  the  short-hairs,  and  if  good  honest  sleep  will 
have  none  of  me,  I'll  write  and  write  and  write. 
Don't  think  I  don't  realise  that  all  this  glib  writ- 
ing I'm  doing,  here  on  the  brink  of  tragedy,  is 


136  THE     COCOON 

saving  me  from  madness,  Jack  —  or  from  myself. 
What  would  I  do  if  I  couldn't  write ! 


On  the  Roof  at  nearly  sundown. 

You  see,  I've  done  it,  Jack,  and  not  a  soul  sus- 
pects me.  Indeed,  when  I  started  out  in  this 
bromidic  get-up,  I  had  almost  to  pinch  myself  to 
know  myself.  I  slipped  around  and  approached 
the  roof  from  a  new  direction,  to  ward  off  possi- 
ble suspicion;  then  I  took  the  first  unoccupied 
cocoon  I  came  to,  steadied  my  parasol  in  a  crotch 
of  the  spring,  and  here  I  am,  and  with  a  vista 
of  profound  outward  peace  to  rest  in  —  if  rest 
would  only  come! 

When  I  first  got  into  my  cot,  I  deliberately  in- 
vited sleep  by  closing  my  eyes  and  thinking  of 
feathers  and  down  and  floating  things  —  but 
every  way  I  turned,  I  seemed  to  see  your  face 
and  I  would  wonder  what  you  were  doing  now. 
So  often  that  question  haunts  me,  these  last  days. 
"What  is  Jack  doing  now?  —  and  now?  —  and 
now? — ",  till  I'm  almost  beside  myself.  Only 
three  days  more  until  you'll  be  here  —  if  you 
come  —  and  yet  I  feel  as  if  it  were  an  eternity 


THE    COCOON  137 

—  eternity  which  never  means  less  than  heaven 
or  hell.     Three  days ! 

It's  long  enough  to  die  and  be  buried,  and  I'm 
hoping  this  may  be  the  way  out  of  it  all  —  for 
both  our  sakes.  But  till  then,  you're  mine, 
Jack! 

A  half  hour  later,  by  my  watch. 

I  was  interrupted  here,  Jack,  by  hearing  my 
own  name,  "  Heminway,"  spoken  in  a  whisper. 
So  I  put  aside  my  pen  and  peeped  under  my 
parasol  to  discover  my  masseuse,  standing  in  the 
tower  door  whispering  to  Beauregarde  Davis.  I'd 
forgotten  all  about  my  massage  just  about  then 
due,  and  no  doubt  the  masseuse  had  been  to  my 
room  and  finding  me  gone,  was  inquiring  for  me. 

No,  I  didn't  listen.  I  didn't  have  to.  They 
were  only  a  stone's  throw  away  and  a  slight 
breeze  in  my  favour. 

"  No,"  B.  D.  had  "  no  idee  "  where  Miss  Hem- 
inway was.  She  hadn't  been  on  the  roof  to-day. 
"  Oh,  sure ! "  he'd  heard  about  the  flowers  and 
the  wedding  — "  but  what  else  would  you  expect, 
from  the  likes  of  her?  D'y'ever  see  an  old  maid 
look  like  that?  "  He  had  heard  she  had  gone 


138  THE     COCOON 

driving,  oh,  yes,  and  "Who's  she  goin'  to 
marry?  " 

How  did  he  know?  "  Some  says  it's  the  Cana- 
dian Colonel,  an'  more  says  a  man  from  New 
York,  though  some  says  the  little  Typhoid  that's 
lost  all  his  hair,  the  way  he  studies  her  an'  writes 
poetry  —  but  I  don't  think." 

He,  himself,  leaned  to  the  New  Yorker,  be- 
cause a  man  would  have  to  have  all  kinds  of 
money  to  waste  a  carload  of  roses  on  a  private 
wedding  —  the  greatest  lot  since  the  old  Doc- 
tor's daughter's  wedding,  when  they  stripped  the 
conservatories. 

Then  somebody  got  up  and  pulled  out  and  I 
didn't  hear  for  a  while.  And  then  —  it  was  the 
masseuse:  (massoose,  they  call  it  here)  — 

"No,  I  don't  know  whether  the  old  Doctor 
knows  about  it  or  not."  She  hoped  so,  however, 
and  that  he  was  resigned  —  although  they  al- 
ways worried  him,  these  weddings.  But  of 
course,  it  wasn't  his  fault.  The  Sanitarium 
wasn't  a  jail.  It  all  came  of  the  patients  having 
nothing  else  to  do,  so  they'd  take  notions  to 
marry  each  other. 


THE     COCOON  139 

"  Yes,"  B.  D.  knew  that  was  so.  "  And  some- 
times it's  the  first  healthy  resolution  a  patient'll 
show,"  he  contributed. 

"  You  see,  it's  so  handy,"  the  masseuse  agreed, 
"  but  that  ain't  here  nor  there  with  Miss  Hemin- 
way,  and  if  you  want  my  opinion,  she's  out  now 
to  meet  her  fiansay  at  the  station,  an'  to  my  best 
belief,  it's  nobody  but  Dr.  Welborn  who  it  seems 
was  taken  suddenly  with  a  need  o'  sleep  day  be- 
fore yesterday,  and  had  to  run  down  to  Rich- 
mond to  get  it  —  to  get  a  license,  /  say,  you  mark 
my  word !  "  And  she  added,  with  a  chuckle, 

"  Ain't  it  funny  how  our  staff  have  to  go  away 
to  get  sleep  when  people  come  from  all  over  to 
get  it  here?  " 

It  was  funny,  B.  D.  agreed,  "  and  I  have 
heard  tell  of  some  of  'em  losin'  sleep  whilst  they 
was  away  —  which  ain't  for  me  to  say.  Any- 
way, we're  goin'  to  have  a  weddin',  and,  of 
course,  Dr.  Welborn  is  always  under  suspicion 
with  every  pretty  girl,  but  I  ain't  a-carin'  who 
gets  'er,  so's  we  keep  'er  in  the  family.  She's 
one  little  lady  that  I  believe  is  polite  on  her  in- 
sides.  An'  I  always  liked  that  colour  hair,  ever 


140  THE     COCOON 

since  I  chose  a  wax  doll  for  my  little  sister  that's 
dead.  I  often  look  acrost  the  roof  an'  think  of 
her." 

"  Yes,  I  like  her,  too,"  agreed  the  lady  of  un- 
guents. "  She's  real  nice,  but  I've  come  to  the 
point  that  I  don't  fix  my  affections  on  any  of 
'em.  You  turn  yourself  inside  out  to  please 
some  fine  lady  that  smiles  on  you,  just  because 
she's  in  the  habit  of  smilin',  an'  when  her  back's 
turned,  you  ain't  any  more  to  her  than  any  other 
bottle  of  cocoa-nut  oil  and  elbow-grease.  Still, 
I  like  Miss  Heminway,  as  I  say.  You  may  know 
I  like  her  when  I  was  sorry  not  to  have  to  give 
her  her  rub  —  but  that  was  partly  on  account  of 
all  the  talk  —  an'  I  thought  I'd  get  on  to  the 
news  an'  see  them  flowers."  And  as  she  turned 
away,  she  added:  "An'  they  ain't  goin'  to  be 
allowed  to  wilt,  neither,  so  we  won't  have  long  to 
wait."  And  she  was  gone. 

There  is  something  in  a  conversation  like  this, 
Jack,  in  circumstances  like  these,  which  brings 
it  straight  to  the  ears  for  which  it  is  not  in- 
tended. It  isn't  voice-carrying,  either,  but  some- 
thing far  more  subtle.  This  harmless  little  gos- 
sip had  scarcely  risen  above  a  whisper  through- 


THE     COCOON  141 

out,  and  yet  —  I  wonder  if  one  might  even  be 
waked  from  sleep  by  a  whisper  of  his  name? 

But  I'm  glad  I  overheard  it.  This  comedy 
presentment  of  my  recent  tragedy  —  and  the 
flower  scrape  was  a  tragedy  while  it  lasted  — 
has  done  me  good,  besides  passing  the  time, 
which  is  the  principal  thing,  now. 

But  I'm  a  wreck  and  a  ruin  of  nerves  from  it 
all  —  on  top  of  the  real  tragedy  which  is  rend- 
ing my  soul  —  and  I  want  you,  Jack,  only  you ! 
Oh,  Jack!  There's  crape  on  my  heart's  door  for 
the  faith  that  is  dead.  Oh,  oh! 

The  roof  is  so  still.  Everybody  seems  to  be 
sleeping.  I  suppose  most  of  them  lead  the  regu- 
lar routine  life  —  a  stated  lot  of  things  done  at 
stated  intervals,  filled  in  between  with  sleep  and 
forgetfulness.  Mine  may  be  the  only  turbulent 
soul  here. 

To  me,  even  the  scratching  of  my  fountain  pen 
makes  a  palpable  noise  topping  everything  till 
it  falls  into  tune  with  the  sea  —  the  sea  suggest- 
ing eternity  in  its  boundless  reaches  and  breath- 
ing like  time  against  the  shore.  Indeed,  what  is 
time  but  Eternity  breathing?  Breathing  —  and 
breathing  —  and  breathing  —  and  — • 


142  THE    COCOON 

Written  in  Diary ; 
NEW  YORK,  June  21st. 

Dear  Long-neglected  Book-of-my-Heart: 

So  many  things  have  happened  since  our  last 
heart-to-heart  together  that  I  scarcely  know 
where  to  begin,  and  yet  I  am  conscious  that  I've 
neglected  you  utterly  ever  since  just  before 
Jack's  arrival  at  Seafair;  and  yet,  as  I  have 
made  you  my  confidant,  first  and  last,  chiefly  as 
an  ally  during  Jack's  absences  or  my  tempera- 
mental deflections,  this  seems  hardly  exceptional. 
Still,  there  is  something  in  our  recent  inti- 
macy which  makes  me  long  to  confide  to  your 
sympathetic  pages,  as  an  offset  to  the  gloom  in 
which  my  last  contributions  were  cast,  the  story 
of  my  happy  issue  out  of  all  my  troubles, —  the 
troubles  which  cloud  your  pages  and  express 
only  turbulence  and  anguish  of  soul. 

I  shall  see  to  it  that  Jack  never  has  another 
peep  into  your  sacred  bosom,  but  there  may  be 
those  who  will  come  after  me  —  daughters,  not 
sons,  for  this  —  to  whom  I  shall  be  only  too  glad 
to  commend  your  utmost  confidences,  even  at  the 
expense  of  my  seeming  dignity,  hoping  in  this 


THE    COCOON  143 

trivial  record  of  miserable  tears  and  narrowly- 
averted  disaster,  possibly  to  guard  them  against 
similar  pitfalls  in  life. 

To  go  further  than  this  now  would  be  telling, 
and  my  poor  little  story  needs  for  interest  all 
that  it  may  develop  of  surprises  in  its  unfolding. 

I  do  not  recall  our  very  last  words  together, 
but  I  keenly  do  remember  that  they  brought  to 
your  defenceless  pages  tortures  of  maddening 
jealousy  and  despair  over  my  having  but  just  dis- 
covered Jack's  correspondence  with  the  little 
Carter;  that  it  was  while  struggling  with  this 
and  its  resultant  insomnia  that  there  arrived 
anonymously  to  me  a  cargo  of  wedding  flowers 
which  filled  my  rooms  with  implications  of  com- 
promising disaster  and  my  nostrils  with  sicken- 
ing odours,  to  escape  which  —  daring  not  to 
brook  the  covert  scrutiny  of  the  ostensibly  sleep- 
ing patients  upon  the  roof  who  regarded  me  as 
an  imminent  bride,  with  free  speculations  as  to 
the  groom  —  I  finally  assumed  a  disguise,  and 
slipping  out  among  the  quiescent  cocooners, 
crept  into  a  cot,  lifted  my  parasol  and  invited 
sleep. 

But,  although  weary  to  the  breaking  point  in 


144  THE     COCOON 

mind  and  body,  sleep  warily  eluded  me  hour  after 
hour,  until  finally,  from  sheer  exhaustion,  I  fell 
into  that  blissful  semi-conscious  state  between 
sleeping  and  waking  in  which  one  dimly  realises 
the  small  noises  about  one,  but  realises  them  as 
happily  inadequate  to  disturb  his  sweet  sense  of 
tranquillity,  this  being,  to  my  mind,  the  poetry 
of  sleep  which  is  at  once  both  more  and  less 
than  the  standard  article  of  faith  which  does 
not  hesitate  to  drop  one  into  oblivion  as  into  a 
starless  black  forest,  without  landmark  or  com- 
pass—  that  deep  gloom  wood  in  which  phos- 
phorescent nightmares  are  known  to  wander, 
ready  saddled  for  any  dreaded  haunt  to  mount 
in  all  his  bones  and  glare  at  one  as  horse  and 
rider  rattle  by,  in  a  night  too  dark  for  shadows. 
The  veiled  slumber  which  we  intimately  know 
as  dozing  and  which  approaches  timidly  with 
titillation  of  the  eyelids  and  an  ineffable  sense  of 
repose,  may  lead  one  along  dry  country  roads 
into  which  fresh  rain  begins  to  fall  or  to  budding 
fields  of  lilies  which  blossom  and  nod  as  he 
passes ;  or  it  may  even  mysteriously  lift  him  from 
his  feet  so  that  he  floats  just  above  the  lily  heads 
with  oever  a  fear  of  the  bees  which  come  so  near 


THE     COCOON  145 

or  of  disturbing  the  motherbird  whose  brooding 
wing  he  fairly  skirts  as  he  goes  by  her  nest  in  the 
reeds. 

It  is  a  region  of  gentles,  this  dreamfield  of 
Arden,  and  lies  too  close  to  the  guards  of  Wake- 
land  for  uncanny  beasts  to  prowl  and  near 
enough  the  rim  of  the  black  forest  for  twilight 
and  the  sense  of  mystery  and  remoteness  so 
grateful  to  the  glare-tired  and  earth-weary. 

As  I  dozed  thus  safely  between  the  two  bor- 
ders in  my  cot  that  day,  I  remember  realising 
that  at  intervals  several  of  my  neighbours  rose 
and  walked  away,  some  even  eschewing  tiptoe, 
and  yet  not  having  power  to  fully  rouse  me  from 
my  deliciously-conscious  semi-sleep. 

(Seems  to  me  that's  pretty  nice  writing,  dear 
Bookie.  Wouldn't  it  be  funny  if  all  I've  been 
through  should  develop  a  literary  talent  in  lit- 
tle me?  There's  no  telling!  Stranger  things 
have  happened.  I  may  be  heard  from  yet.) 

Even  the  whistled  salutes  of  one  or  two  pass- 
ing boats  near  shore  reached  me  only  as  joy-notes 
kindly  muffled  by  the  fog  of  sleep;  and  yet, 
strange  to  say,  it  was  the  merest  swish  of  a  page 
turning  quite  near  me  which  suddenly  opened  my 


146  THE     COCOON 

eyes ;  and  by  lifting  my  face  just  a  wee  bit,  I  saw 
a  man's  hand  hanging,  palm  downward,  from  the 
cot  next  my  own. 

This  was  interesting  and  I  was  instantly  wide 
awake.  It  was  a  nice  hand,  clean,  strong,  kind- 
looking.  It  reminded  me  of  Jack's  hand,  some- 
how, even  to  the  tiny  band  of  gold  encircling  its 
third  finger.  Jack  wore  just  such  a  ring,  my 
gift  —  but,  of  course,  most  rings  are  much  alike 
on  their  under  sides. 

Jack's  is  an  ancient  intaglio  which  I  picked  up 
in  Siena  during  our  last  engagement  and  had 
mounted  for  him  in  a  design  of  my  own  drawing, 
"  two  perfectly  bromidic  griffins  clasping  the  seal 
in  a  sulphitic  way,"  so  I  playfully  described  it  to 
him  on  presenting  it. 

Glad  of  something  trivial  to  keep  my  mind 
off  the  danger  shoals,  I  began  rebuilding  Jack's 
ring  from  memory  when  my  neighbour  turned 
another  leaf,  withdrawing  his  hand  and  drop- 
ping it  again,  this  time  turned  over  so  that  I 
clearly  saw  what  seemed  a  replica  of  Jack's  ring. 

I  knew  it  was  silly  and  yet  my  heart  stopped 
for  a  moment  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were  dying;  then 
it  played  an  anvil  chorus  in  my  ears  and  I  felt 


T  H  E     C  O  C  O  O  N  147 

myself  strangling  with  I  knew  not  what,  when 
the  reader  put  down  his  book  and  took  out  his 
watch,  and  from  my  pillow,  I  distinctly  saw  my 
own  picture  painted  inside  the  case  of  Jack  Hem- 
inway's  watch. 

Next  day : 

I  had  to  leave  you  yesterday,  Bookie,  to  answer 
a  telephone  call,  and  couldn't  get  back  to  you. 
Viola  Vixen  Vandegrief  called  me  up  and  wanted 
me  to  go  out  for  a  spin  with  her,  and  I  couldn't 
refuse  as  she  is  Jack's  sister-in-law's  niece  and 
she's  in  trouble,  poor  dear.  I  tell  you,  Bookie, 
this  living  on  alimony  must  be  trying  to  any 
woman  of  spirit.  Poor  little  Vixie  is  a  per- 
fectly harmless  creature,  fairly  running  over 
with  small  grievances  just  now  and  she's  one 
of  those  who,  when  once  she  gets  her  wind,  you 
can't  stop. 

And  she  is  having  what  she  calls  a  "  helova- 
time."  So  she  condenses  in  her  notes  to  me,  as 
she  knows  her  maid  reads  all  she  writes,  when 
she  gets  a  chance  and  all  she  receives  always. 
But  this  is  the  only  way  I've  ever  known  her  to 
condense.  I  have  an  idea  her  prolixity  had  some- 
what to  do  with  Paul  Vandergrief's  deflection, 


148  T  H  E     C  O  C  O  O  N 

for  the  co-respondent  in  the  case  is  a  wax-doll 
who  has  never  been  known  to  say  anything.  But 
she'll  probably  get  Vixie's  house  in  Gramercy 
Park,  all  the  same,  from  the  way  things  look,  and 
he  is  fairly  niggardly  with  his  wife  in  his  allow- 
ance—  and  poor  Vix  can't  make  a  fuss  just 
because,  you  see,  men  have  liked  her  and  Paul 
could  give  her  cold  shivers  in  a  court-room,  if 
he  were  provoked  to  it.  That  was  what  she 
wanted  to  consult  me  about,  and  why  we  stayed 
out  so  interminably. 

"  How  did  I  advise  her?  "  Oh,  of  course,  I 
advised  her  first  and  last  to  make  up  with  Paul, 
no  matter  what.  I  assured  her  that  positive 
proof  of  a  husband's  infidelity  didn't  amount  to 
a  row  of  pins;  that  husbands  were  the  most 
maligned  class  on  earth,  especially  when  they 
were  in  the  least  attractive ;  that  any  woman  wrho 
believed  her  own  eyes  against  a  man  she  loved 
was  an  idiot.  Oh,  I  put  it  strong!  That's  the 
only  way  I'd  ever  advise  any  woman,  after  this, 
but 

But,  I  say,  I  was  telling  you  —  for  my  still  re- 
motely imminent  daughters'  perusal  —  I  was 


THE    COCOON  149 

telling  you,  dear  Book,  about  Jack  and  me,  and 
our  tumultuous  finish  at  the  Rest  Cure. 

Where  were  we?  Oh,  yes.  I  was  on  the  Sea- 
fair  roof  in  my  cot  and  had  just  discovered  my 
picture  in  Jack's  watch,  in  the  hand  of  the  man- 
worm  of  the  cocoon  next  mine. 

"  What  did  I  do?  "  when  I  recognised  Jack's 
watch  in  what  seemed  his  dear  hand?  Not  only 
that,  but  when  he  had  seen  the  time,  I  saw  him 
turn  the  watch  to  look  at  my  picture  and  heard 
his  familiar  chuckle  of  domestic  bliss. 

"  I  chortle  in  my  glee  when  I  look  at  you, 
Blessibus !  "  So  he  had  said  more  than  once  in 
moments  of  tenderness,  and  it  seemed  to  me  I 
almost  heard  him  say  it  now. 

"  What  did  I  do?  "  Why,  Bookie,  I'm  almost 
ashamed  to  tell  you.  I  bawled,  that's  what  I 
did.  Just  baioled!  Aloud,  as  a  child  weeps 
when  the  end  of  all  things  has  come,  so  I  let  my- 
self go. 

Of  course,  Jack  was  up  instantly  and  beside 
me  with  a  spring  and  before  the  curious  knew 
what  was  doing,  his  head  was  under  the  pongee 
parasol  and  they  must  have  heard  him  talking 


150  THE     COCOON 

baby-talk.    It's  a  motherly  way  Jack  always  had 
with  me  if  I'd  get  to  crying,  this  baby-talk. 

I  have  no  idea  what  I  said.  Jack  was  there. 
His  dear  arms  were  around  me.  I  must  have 
said  something,  however,  for  presently  he  was 
answering : 

"  Because,  my  darling,  they  told  me  you  were 
out  driving,  and  I  strolled  up  here  to  take  a 
squint  at  your  i  cocoonery,'  and  your  Beaure- 
garde  Davis  came  and  asked  me  if  I'd  like  a  cot, 
and  I  said  to  myself  '  Why  not?  I'll  take  it  and 
see  how  it  feels  —  till  she  comes,' —  and  I  must 
have  slept  quite  a  bit.  After  my  night  on  the 
cars  I  was  dead  tired. 

"  Frankly,  my  dear,  I  had  no  idea  you'd  come 
in  before  dark  and  I  didn't  quite  know  where  to 
bestow  myself  if  I  crawled  out.  You  see,  I 
couldn't  register  —  not  knowing  just  how  things 
were  —  till  I'd  seen  you. 

"  But  what  are  you  crying  for?  How  could  I 
register?  Haven't  I  been  telling  you?  Nobody 
knows  I'm  here.  I  couldn't  give  you  away  — 
and  —  and  —  sh  —  sh  —  h  —  h !  People'll  be 
wondering  what's  the  matter.  Aren't  you  glad 
to  see  me,  Honeybus?  '  Get  your  letter?'  What 


'THE     COCOON  151 

letter?  I've  got  miles  of  'em!  Wait  a  minute! 
—  and  sh  —  h  —  h !  Stop  crying  —  I'll  be  right 
back " 

A  sudden  attack  of  hysteria,  while  not  exactly 
common  among  the  nerve  racked  habitues  of 
the  roof,  was  not  unprecedented  and  so  no  one 
paid  much  attention  to  a  strange  man  hurrying 
away  and  returning  presently  with  something 
in  a  tumbler  to  administer  under  a  parasol. 

New  tired  people  came  in,  you  know,  as  fast 
as  the  rested  went  out.  The  caravansary  was 
used  to  itself  and  its  ways. 

Neither  was  any  one  interested  to  follow  the 
hysterical  lady  entirely  swathed  in  shawls  and 
veil  when  she  presently  left  the  roof,  virtually 
carried  in  the  arms  of  her  husband. 

I  had  been  so  swept  from  my  feet  by  the  ex- 
citement of  Jack's  arrival  that  I  hadn't  thought 
of  the  comedy  of  the  flowers  —  I  hadn't  thought 
of  anything  coherently  indeed  —  until  he  had 
set  me  down  in  my  room,  in  the  midst  of  the 
array. 

Then  there  was  something  in  it  all  that 
seemed  to  bring  back  everything  with  a  rush. 
I  tried  to  straighten  up  and  meet  things,  but  I 


152  THE     COCOON 

was  too  tired,  and  after  a  spell  of  strangling 
and  back-slapping  I  fell  to  sobbing  and  was  for- 
cibly taken  to  lap,  willy  nilly,  and  coddled  and 
scolded. 

I  knew  I  was  failing  utterly  as  a  woman  and 
lapsing  into  a  wretched  invertebrate,  but  at  last 
I  got  out: 

"  Oh,  Jack !  Jack !  " —  and  then  I  was  off 
again,  fairly  drowning  in  grief. 

"  It's  these  awf  —  awf-f-fl-flowers,  Jack  —  and 
every  thing!  I'm  going  to  d-die  —  I  f-feel 
so " 

Then,  seizing  the  first  trivial  grievance  that 
offered,  I  cried: 

"Wh-why  don't  you  ask  me  about  them?  Do 
you  think  I'm  running  a  flower-show  down 
here?  " 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  flowers,  I'd  like 
to  know?  Have  you  any  objection  to  them?" 
His  voice  was  positively  stern  and  it  brought  me 
to  myself.  I  sat  up  and  looked  him  straight  in 
the  eye. 

"  J-Jack  Heminway,"  I  stammered.  "  D-do 
you  know  anything  —  about  —  these  —  f-fool 
flowers?" 


THE     COCOON  153 

"  Well,  I  like  that !  "  He  was  exasperatingly 
calm.  "  Who  else  has  a  right  to  know,  I  won- 
der? Who  else  would  be  filling  my  wife's  room 
with  roses?  " 

I  moved  away  back,  to  the  very  edge  of  his 
knees  —  and  looked  at  him. 

"But,  Jack!  Are  you  crazy?  It's  well  I 
know  who  sent  them  or  I'd  think  you  had  sus- 
tained an  organic  lesion  of  the  brain!  Why, 
those  orchids  must  have  cost  three  dollars  apiece 
at  Thorler's  —  if  not  more." 

"  They  did  cost  fully  that,  my  dear  —  if  not 
more  —  and  at  Thorler's.  There's  nothing 
wrong  with  that,  that  I  can  see,  and  — "  He  had 
been  unwinding  the  green  gauze  from  my  head, 
and  now,  seeing  me  well  for  the  first  time,  he 
chuckled:  "And  I  don't  see  anything  wrong 
with  you,  either.  Why,  bless  me,  Blessy,  you're 
as  pink  and  smooth  as  a  three  months'  old  baby. 
This  rest-cure  is  great!  But  come,  now,  I  want 
to  do  some  talking. 

"  First,  I  must  hurry  down  and  register  —  and 
it  might  be  well  for  you  to  go  with  me;  that  is, 
if  you  are  ready  to  'fess  up  and  acknowledge 
me?" 


154  THE     COCOON 

This  was  bringing  things  to  a  focus.  Trouble 
already  vaguely  hovering  loomed  dark  and  aw- 
ful. 

I'm  not  a  cry-baby,  exactly.  I  know  I'm  not, 
and  yet,  all  my  life,  when  I  haven't  known  what 
else  to  do,  I've  just  cried.  And  so  I  did  now 
—  just  cried,  wearily  at  first,  then  —  all  the  time 
with  my  face  averted  from  Jack's  —  I  let  my- 
self go  again,  in  sheer  bewilderment  of  grief, 
Jack  pitifully  begging  me  to  tell  him  about  it; 
and  when  I  finally  escaped  from  tears,  it  was 
by  the  unhinged  gate  of  laughter  —  and,  of 
course,'  that  required  heroic  measures,  drops 
chokingly  swallowed  and  kisses  limply  repelled, 
before  I  was  able  to  listen  while  poor  Jack  kept 
reminding  me  that  the  time  was  short  and  he 
had  important  things  to  say. 

Even  this  sensational  announcement  fell  upon 
my  ears  like  summer  rain  with  no  meaning  be- 
yond the  power  to  defer  the  evil  moment,  until, 
finally,  he  lifted  my  face  to  his,  wiped  its  tears 
away  and  said,  in  the  unmistakable  tone  one  uses 
in  trying  to  quiet  a  crying  child : 

"  Guess  what  I've  got  in  my  dress-suit-case 
down  stairs?" 


THE     COCOON  155 

But  I  was  in  no  mood  for  guessing. 

"  I've  brought  your  wedding-dress,  Wifey,  and 
it's  down  in  the  rotunda  now." 

Now,  I  listened.  Anything  to  avert  the  main 
issue!  Besides,  this  was  interesting. 

"And  have  you  known  him  all  this  time?"  I 
asked,  sniffling.  "  And  are  you  in  it,  too?  " 

"In  what,  Beloved?"  Oh,  how  I  loved  him! 
And  how  I  kept  sheathing  the  blade  which  would 
any  moment  sever  us  forever !  I  even  welcomed 
the  Butte's  silly  affair  as  a  foil  in  my  extremity ! 

"  Why,  in  the  Butte's  wedding,  to-night,  of 
course.  She  asked  me  to  be  matron  of  honour, 
and  I  had  to  tell  her  I  had  no  suitable  dress, 
and  here  you  turn  up  with  the  dress  and  you 
evidently  know  all  about  the  flowers  and  every- 
thing." 

"  Butte  nothing !  But  you're  to  be  matron  of 
honour,  just  the  samee !  " 

At  this,  the  furniture  in  the  room  began  to 
sway  and  the  windows  turned  dizzily  sidewise, 
while  red  and  green  discs  melted  into  each  other 
whichever  way  I  looked.  I  grasped  my  hus- 
band's knee  and  half  sanely  and  half  as  one  on 
the  ragged  edge,  I  gasped : 


156  THE     COCOON 

"  It's  Alice  in  Wonderland !  And  you're  go- 
ing to  say  'All  persons  over  a  mile  high,  leave 
the  court ! '  " 

"  Well,  suppose  I  do.  That  won't  expel  you !  " 
But  his  light  laughter  belied  a  serious  face, 
even  while  he  added  playfully,  "  You're  not  a 
mile  high,  even  when  you  get  on  a  high  horse. 
I  can  always  reach  you  with  a  step-ladder." 

"  You  are  making  fun  of  me,  Jack ! "  I 
snapped.  "  I  may  be  a  real  fool  —  but  I'm  not 
—  I'm  not  a  fantastic  fool!  WThat's  all  this 
nonsense  about  my  wedding-dress  —  and  —  and 
all  these  silly  flowers  —  and  your  sneaking  in 
and  spying  on  me?  " 

"  Blessy ! " 

"  No,  I  take  that  back,  of  course ! "  It  was 
really  too  common !  "  But  it  is  queer,  you'll 
allow.  Here  I've  been  led  to  believe  you  couldn't 
possibly  be  along  before  Saturday,  and " 

"  Blessy! "  The  call  was  staccato.  "  Look 
in  my  face.  Now  listen,  will  you?  Give  me  five 
minutes,  and  not  a  syllable,  if  you  love  me,  till 
I  get  through.  There's  going  to  be  a  wedding 
here  to-night,  a  sensational  wedding  in  the  smart 


THE     COCOON  1ST 

set,  and  you  are  to  be  matron  of  honour  —  do 
you  hear?" 

"Ambition,  distraction,  uglification  and  deri- 
sion," I  mocked, — "  and  the  drawing-master  was 
a  conger  eel  and  he  taught  us  drawing,  stretch- 
ing and  fainting  in  coils.  But  where's  the 
gryphon  ?  " 

I  repeated  the  words  mechanically,  gazing  va- 
cantly at  the  discs  as  they  floated  between  my 
eyes  and  my  little  plaster  Lincoln  Imp  upon 
the  wall,  but  Jack  paid  no  attention  whatever. 
Alice  in  Wonderland  did  not  exist  for  him  while 
he  went  on : 

"  And  I  brought  your  wedding-dress,  my  dear, 
because  I  remembered  that  you  wore  it  when  you 
were  matron  for  Evelyn  Dardrieth." 

"  But  Evelyn  Dardrieth  was  my  friend." 

"And  the  bride  of  this  evening  is  a  friend's 
friend." 

The  phrasing  of  this  shot  a  chill  through  me. 
His  letter  to  "  a  friend's  friend  "  that  moment 
in  my  pocket  was  suddenly  a  live  coal  firing  my 
mind  to  flame.  Was  he  insidiously,  maliciously, 
brutally,  tending  toward  some  awful  dtnoue- 


158  THE     COCOON 

mentf  In  the  lurid  glare  of  suspicion,  jealousy 
conjured  all  sorts  of  horrors. 

For  a  moment  my  hand  even  sought  the  offend- 
ing letter.  If  there  was  going  to  be  trouble  like 
this,  the  initiative  was  mine,  not  his,  and  yet, 
as  I  looked  into  his  face,  I  couldn't  do  it.  I 
couldn't  accuse  him ;  but  I  am  sure  my  face  was 
not  good  to  behold  as  I  sprang  from  his  knee, 
but  not  swiftly  enough  to  elude  his  staying  hand. 
Gently  but  firmly  he  drew  me  back  to  my  place, 
and  held  me  there.  It  really  was  my  place,  for 
was  I  not  his  rightful  queen  and  on  my  own 
throne?  So,  loving  him  with  all  my  life  even 
while  I  held  aloof,  I  parried  the  inevitable,  just 
to  prolong  this  last  moment  there,  and  tried  to 
answer  him  casually : 

"  Really,  Jack,"  I  pleaded,  "  are  we  talking  on 
the  earth  plane,  honestly?  And  who,  may  I  ask, 
is  this  '  friend's  friend,'  forsooth  —  and  wrhere?  " 

"  She  is  here.  Now,  keep  still,  Blessy.  You 
look  so  strange,  you  scare  me.  I'll  do  my  best 
to  explain,  but  don't  scream  t  Fire ! '  or  l  Police ! ' 
till  I'm  done.  You've  heard  of  Geraldine  Hal- 
dane,  Carrie  Oglesby's  chum,  and  at  present 
Oglesby's  ward?  Well,  I  —  J.  D.  Heminway  — 


THE     COCOON  159 

as  Oglesby's  partner,  am,  in  a  manner,  represent- 
ing him.  You  understand?  You  remember  the 
girl?" 

"  Remember  the  beautiful  heiress,  Geraldine 
Haldane?  Why,  who  hasn't  heard  of  her? 
Everybody  in  New  York  who  is  anybody  knows 
all  about  her,  of  course  —  and  that  Englishman. 
Haven't  they  been  floating  in  and  out  of  society 
columns,  both  here  and  on  the  other  side,  for 
the  last  twelve  months?  She  virtually  lives 
abroad,  anyway.  You  know,  she's  lost  —  dis- 
appeared months  ago  when  the  Duke  of  Don- 
aught  came  over  to  marry  her.  Lots  of  people 
think  she's  been  swallowed  up  in  the  white  slave 
trade.  Of  course,  I  wouldn't  wish  ill  to  any- 
body, but  if  my  sorrow  over  so  gruesome  a  fate 
could  be  mitigated,  it  would  be  in  the  case  of  one 
of  these  supercilious,  expatriated  American 
heiresses." 

"  That's  the  worst  thing  I  ever  heard  you  say, 
Blessy.  But  don't  worry.  She's  a  little  white 
slave  of  circumstance,  is  Miss  Haldane,  but 
that's  all,  and  she  is  going  to  be  married  here 
to-night  —  and  to  her  other  English  lover  —  and 
that's  why  I  hurried  along." 


160  THE     COCOON 

"  Why  you  hurried  along?  I'll  be  switched  if 
I  see  the  connection,  but  no  matter.  Will  you 
kindly  tell  me  why  she  is  to  be  married  here, 
of  all  places  in  the  world?  " 

"  Because  they  are  here." 

" '  They,'  you  say?    Here?    Not  at  Seafair?  " 

"  Yes,  my  Love,  here  at  Seafair  —  at  the  sani- 
tarium to  which  institution  I've  been  dutifully 
directing  all  Oglesby's  business  correspondence 
with  her,  sending  her  cheques,  etc.,  for  the  last 
six  months,  to  ward  off  possible  suspicion  of  his 
keeping  up  with  her.  They  say  her  people  have 
detectives  shadowing  everybody  she  knows. 
Oglesby  really  didn't  know  where  she  was,  for 
a  while.  I'm  quite  curious  to  see  her,  especially 
after  your  report  of  her.  Of  course,  you've 
guessed  that  she's  the  little  Carter." 

Oh,  little  Book,  little  Book !  I'll  never  be  able 
to  tell  you  what  happened  then,  for  I  don't 
in  the  least  know.  My  first  consciousness  was 
of  "  coming  to  "  in  Jack's  arms.  He  says  I  sud- 
denly fainted  dead  away  wrhile  he  was  casually 
talking,  which  is  the  simple  truth,  as  he  saw  it 
—  dear  unsuspecting  Jack!  —  and  he  declares 


THE     COCOON  161 

that  it  was  but  a  natural  reaction,  after  my  sur- 
prise in  his  sudden  coming. 

He'll  never  know  how  abased  I  was,  how  I 
grovelled  in  my  soul  when  I  just  let  myself  fall 
limply  back  into  my  old  place  —  when  I  fairly 
wabbled  my  head  to  make  sure  it  rested  over 
the  little  hollow  in  his  dear  neck  —  when  finally 
I  was  able  to  look  up  into  his  dear  eyes  and  whis- 
per, "  Kiss  me,  Jack." 

They  say  the  hour  of  utmost  peace  in  a 
woman's  life  is  when  her  child  is  born.  Maybe 
it  is,  but  I'm  not  sure. 

When  I  arrived  at  speech  again,  doing  my 
best  to  be  casual,  I  found  myself  at  a  loss  as  to 
just  where  Jack  had  left  off.  Fortunately,  he 
promptly  came  to  my  relief  with: 

"Had  you  guessed  before  I  came,  my  dear?" 

"  Guessed  about  the  Carter?  Surely  not. 
How  could  I?  But,  Jack,  you  know  she's  as 
crazy  as  a  loon !  " 

Jack  threw  back  his  head  and  roared. 

"  No  doubt.  And  so  were  you  crazy  when  you 
married  me,  but  it  wasn't  in  the  game  for  you 
to  show  it.  Her  case  is  just  the  reverse,  and  I'm 


162  THE     COCOON 

told  she  does  the  nervous  prostrate  to  a  turn. 
Oglesby  and  I  nearly  expired  over  that  '  hell- 
hounds '  business.  Yes,  they  say  she's  worked 
in  all  the  frills  and  fooled  the  whole  bunch 
here." 

"But  the  man,  Jack?  The  Englishman? 
You  say  *  they '  are  here.  I'll  remember 
his  name  presently.  It's  —  it's  —  let  me  see. 
Street,  that's  it,  Sir  Reginald  Street.  He  must 
just  have  arrived." 

"  Not  at  all.  He's  been  here  almost  since  she 
came  —  and  he  goes  by  his  own  name,  too  —  his 
own  name,  translated,  Reginald  La  Rue." 

"  Not  my  Canadian !  The  perfidious  creature ! 
Reading  his  old  poems  to  me  and  —  and " 

"  And  knowing  all  the  time  who  you  were  and 
doing  you  numberless  little  kindnesses  of  which 
you  were  unaware.  He  knew  we  were  trying  to 
help  him  and  he  didn't  know  how  much  you 
knew,  and  he  hoped  every  day  that  you  would 
broach  the  subject  next  his  heart.  He  is  a 
manly  fellow,  much  too  good  for  the  whole  tribe 
of  Haldanes,  although  I'm  half  converted  to 
Miss  Geraldine,  myself  —  the  way  she  just 
wouldn't  when  she  wouldn't,  and  Sir  Duke  had 


THE     COCOON  163 

to  turn  around  and  go  back.  Only  last  week, 
her  mother  said  to  me :  '  If  I  could  only  find 
her,  she  might  marry  whom  she  pleased.' 

" '  And  would  you  be  willing  to  put  that  in 
writing? '  said  I,  seizing  my  chance.  i  I'm  going 
knocking  'round  and  I  might  stumble  on  her  — 
and  if  I  had ' 

"  '  Gladly ! '  She  interrupted  with  a  gush  of 
tears,  not  even  letting  me  finish. 

"And  /  have  it  in  my  pocket  this  minute  — 
with  the  license,  which,  I  assure  you,  gave  us 
more  trouble  —  but  we've  got  it! 

"  So  you  can  see  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 
You  know,  her  mother  was  a  Vanderthrift  and 
she  had  the  millions  and,  as  I've  said,  Oglesby  is 
her  guardian  now.  Her  father  had  a  stroke 
when  she  disappeared,  but  she  mustn't  know  it." 

A  white  light  began  to  dawn.  I  looked 
around  the  room,  at  the  flowers  —  and  then  at 
my  husband. 

"And  these  are  her  flowers,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes,  Goosey,  these  are  her  flowers.  Have 
you  any  objection?  " 

"  Don't  bother  me,  Jack.  Let  me  get  my  wits 
together.  She  never  seemed  to  see  the  Cana- 


164  THE     COCOON 

dian.  Why,  I  never  knew  her  to  leave  her 
room." 

"  Strictly  not.  She's  as  much  afraid  of  a 
camera  as  any  criminal.  Otherwise  Street  could 
not  have  dared  show  up  here,  for,  of  course,  she 
didn't  know  he  was  here,  that  is,  not  till  day  be- 
fore yesterday.  He  knew  she  was  in  retirement 
and  he  came  incog.,  just  to  be  near  her.  He  sent 
all  his  letters  under  cover  to  Montreal  or  Quebec 
to  be  remailed,  and  there  were  not  many  —  and, 
even  so,  they  were  written  in  French  as  from  a 
certain  Sister  Mercedes,  nonexistent,  who  is  al- 
leged to  have  taught  her  in  some  convent  on  the 
other  side  —  just  in  case  the  secret  should  have 
leaked  out.  They've  had  a  bad  time,  those 
lovers. 

"  But  when  I  started  off  with  that  maternal 
permission  in  my  pocket,  Oglesby  sent  a  tele- 
gram in  cipher  to  i  La  Rue,'  who  rushed  a  card 
up  to  '  Miss  Carter,'  and  things  began  to  march 
in  line. 

"  Of  course,  she  would  have  married  without 
her  mother's  consent,  if  worse  came  to  worst, 
but  she  hated  to,  after  openly  defying  her  about 
Donaught,  or  Donaughty,  as  the  New  York 


165 

Galaxy  calls  him.  I  fancy,  from  all  accounts, 
that  the  little  girl  did  well  to  let  him  slide. 
Oglesby  has  handled  the  affair  on  his  side  with 
great  delicacy  and  skill.  Five  millions  there, 
you  know.  But  for  my  having  been  drawn  into 
it  for  him,  I  might  never  have  heard  of  this  place 
or  thought  of  sending  you  here. 

"  If  Street  hadn't  been  a  trump,  I'd  have  put 
you  on  your  guard,  but  it  wasn't  necessary. 
But  tell  me,  Dear,  what  put  such  a  notion  into 
your  head  as  that  these  were  the  Butte's 
flowers?  " 

"  Not  now,  Jack.  One  thing  at  a  time.  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  that  to-morrow,  next  day,  next 
week 

"  And  you  say  to-night,  Jack?  " 

Jack  took  out  his  watch. 

"  In  exactly  three  hours.  The  decorators 
come  at  eight  to  arrange  the  flowers  in  the 
chapel,  ceremony  at  nine.  Train  for  Chicago  at 
ten  fifteen  —  thence  they  go  to  —  well,  that's 
their  business." 

I  had  been  rubbing  Jack's  hand  up  and  down 
over  my  cheek.  I  put  it  down  now  and  laid  my 
other  hand  over  it  in  my  lap  while  I  answered: 


166 

"  I  begin  to  see  —  and  things  look  natural 
again,  or  half  natural.  But,  Jack,  why  in  the 
kingdom  did  you  send  those  flowers  to  me?  I 
won't  try  to  tell  you  the  fright  they  put  me  to  — 
not  now." 

"  For  every  reason,  Dear,  I  sent  them  to  you. 
First,  because  I  knew  my  little  wife  to  be  dis- 
creet. She  isn't  caught  napping.  If  she  didn't 
understand,  she  wouldn't  say  so.  Am  I  not  right 
in  that?" — kissing  the  top  of  my  head,  as  he 
spoke. 

"  But  I  was  much  too  humble  yet  to  do  more 
than  shrug  my  shoulders. 

"  Then,  Dear,"  Jack  went  on,  "  you  see,  no  one 
knew  anything  about  the  wedding,  and  they  were 
not  to  know  until  the  last  minute  —  not  until 
they  had  been  invited  into  the  chapel  —  saves  f  " 

"  Yes,  I  see." 

"And  didn't  I  guard  your  little  secret  well, 
'  Miss  Heminway  '?  —  you  little  rascal !  —  when 
I  sent  them  just  to  '  No.  99,  Heminway,'  no  Miss 
or  Mrs.  or  anything  —  no  seeming  avoidance  — 
no  possibility  of  mistake." 

"  Hush  bragging,  Jack,  and  hand  me  my 
buffer.  I've  had  every  physical  attention  here 


THE     COCOON  167 

except  manicuring.  Women  don't  manicure  for 
other  women  much,  and  I  always  go  gloved  to 
the  roof  —  and  my  sainted  old  Doctor  is  in  the 
far-sighted  period  of  life,  poor  dear.  That's 
why  he  still  thinks  well  of  me. 

"  Look  at  my  hands.  Well  washed  and  then 
forgot.  You  are  much  too  good  for  me,  Jack, 
but  there's  no  time  to  talk  now.  You'd  better 
ring  for  those  suit-cases  and  while  you're  shak- 
ing out  wrinkles,  I'll  be  polishing  up. 

"  Any  refreshments?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  few  things.  Some  terrapin  and 
lobster  and  a  galantine  or  two  and  sandwiches 

—  and,  of  course,  a  little  champagne  and  coffee 

—  and  the  usual  bride's  cake,  etc." 
"  And  only  us,  for  all  that?  " 

"  Yes,  only  us  and  a  handful  of  friends  from 
the  Belvedere,  and  Joe  Conwright  and  his  wife 
are  motoring  over.  And,  by  the  way,  the  Gov- 
ernor of  the  State  is  here  for  the  night,  with  his 
lady.  It  seems  they  have  a  niece  here,  taking 
the  cure.  I  met  them  on  the  sleeper  and  we  ex- 
changed cards  and  they  are  coming,  and  I'll  get 
him  to  sign  as  one  of  the  witnesses.  It'll  tickle 
the  old  lady  Haldane  tremendously." 


168  THE     COCOON 

"And  no  one  from  the  sanitarium?" 

"  Several  from  the  sanitarium,  certainly,  be- 
sides Dr.  Jacques  and  his  family,  who  will  be  the 
most  dignified  witnesses.  I  believe  she's  asking 
several  of  the  staff,  each  one  confidentially,  of 
course.  And  your  friend,  the  joke-man,  he's  in 
the  secret.  Indeed,  he's  going  to  write  it  up 
for  the  New  York  press." 

"And  how  long  has  he  known,  pray?" 

"  Since  just  now  —  several  hours  ago. 
Oglesby  telegraphed  him  to  meet  a  member  of 
his  firm  at  the  station  to  confer  about  a  matter 
of  business  —  and  there  he  stood  when  I  got  off 
the  train.  And  he's  to  have  a  ripping  cheque, 
too,  worthy  of  the  prominence  of  the  contracting 
parties.  Poor  little  man!  When  I  told  him 
what  he  would  be  paid,  he  quite  filled  up  for  a 
minute  as  he  gasped :  '  Gee !  What  a  windfall ! 
Why,  I'll  be  able  to  send  for  my  wife.  She's 
awfully  done  for,  after  nursing  me  through  all 
my  typhoid.' ' 

"His  wife?" 

"Why  not?" 

"  Oh,  no  reason,  I  suppose  —  only,  he  looks 
such  a  boy  —  and  it  was  so  silly  of  him  to  spend 


THE    COCOON  169 

all  that  money  on  roses,  if  he  had  a  wife  to  look 
after  and  is  so  poor  that  a  little  wedding  write-up 
counts." 

"  You  have  much  to  learn,  little  one.  Don't 
you  know  that  people  of  the  artistic  temperament 
dote  on  buying  roses  when  the  bread's  out?  And 
they  are  high  class  when  they  don't  owe  for  their 
roses,  the  dear  infants.  But  as  for  this  being  a 
trifling  order,  you  are  mistaken.  One  of  the  last 
things  her  mother  said  to  me  wras " 

"  Whose  mother?  " 

"  Why  Geraldine  Haldane's  mother,  of  course. 
Whose  else?  The  last  thing  she  said  to  me  when 
she  signed  that  paper  was,  '  Nothing  cheap,  now ! 
If  you  should  run  against  them  and  they  should 
be  playing  fool  and  getting  married,  I  want  de- 
cent bills.  No  tupenny  business.  Oh,  my  poor 
lamb ! '  And  she  was  weeping  copiously  when 
she  said  it,  too,  poor  old  soul ! 

"  So  I  went  straight  from  her  to  the  telephone, 
consulted  Oglesby,  thence  to  the  florist,  ascer- 
tained what  the  Campden-Bellows  wedding  flow- 
ers cost  and  duplicated  the  order  to  a  dot.  From 
there  to  Sperry's  and  had  the  Ulric-Considene 
wedding-supper  repeated,  with  a  trifle  or  two 


170  THE     COCOON 

added  just  for  grandeur,  and  I  was  on  my  way 
to  fetch  a  reporter  when  I  remembered  your  lit- 
tle joke-man  whom  I  discover  to  be  one  of  the 
Planet's  crack  society  reporters,  supposedly  still 
hors  de  combat  after  a  tussle  with  typhoid,  and 
he's  to  have  his  cheque  to-night  —  and  I  believe 
that's  all.  My  handling  of  the  affair  shall  be  as 
princely  as  I  can  make  it.  I  don't  often  have 
such  a  chance." 

"  And  you've  never  told  her  mother  a  thing?  " 
"The  secret  wasn't  mine  to  tell,  dear  heart. 
It  became  mine  only  to  keep  and  I  was  let  in 
simply  to  help.  Besides,  I  wouldn't  have 
trusted  her.  She'd  no  sooner  have  known  her 
1  poor  lamb '  alive  and  well  than  she'd  have  tried 
to  lock  her  up  again. 

"  I  don't  see  what  she's  making  such  a  kick 
about,  anyhow,  for  Street  is  big-rich  in  his  own 
right  and  a  gentleman.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  possibility  of  the  ducal  coronet,  she'd  have 
jumped  at  Street.  She'll  always  feel  that 
Geraldine's  cousin,  Sybil  Clangour,  is  just  one 
degree  ahead  of  Geraldine  socially  in  being  even 
the  divorced  wife  of  that  nasty  old  Earl  whom 
she  was  obliged  to  leave.  You  know,  she  and 


THE     COCOON  171 

Geraldine    were    presented    the    same    season." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  well  enough.  Two  years 
after  I  was,"  I  blurted,  but  Jack  went  on : 

"  I  tell  you,  Blessy,  the  human  is  an  in- 
scrutable creature,  especially  the  female  of  the 
species,  in  the  exercise  of  her  master  passion." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  Jack,"  I  chirped,  squinting 
at  the  shine  on  my  thumb-nail,  to  keep  a  straight 
face.  "  Yes,  I  agree  with  you,  the  female  of  our 
species  is  often  more  lively  than  the  male.  I 
admit  that." 

Jack  was  putting  in  his  shirt  studs  and  he 
didn't  look  up.  He  was  used  to  my  talk.  Still, 
his  face  lit  as  he  turned  to  me  presently  with : 

"  I've  missed  you  a  lot,  Blessibus !  I  do  won- 
der if  I  dare  take  you  home  with  me,  sure  enough 
—  about  next  Thursday,  say?  I  think  I  might 
arrange  to  stay  that  long,  and  you  will  have  had 
one  solid  week  of  real  repose,  dead  calm.  I'll 
see  to  that." 

"  Dare  to  take  me !  "  I  mocked.  "  Well,  I  like 
that!  I  dare  you  not  to.  But  really,  Jack, 
hadn't  we  better  run  down  now,  so  that  you  can 
register?  You  see,  you  are  just  a  strange  man 
to  these  people  yet,  and  you've  been  up  here  in 


172  THE    COCOON 

my  room  a  good  while.  No  doubt  many  of  the 
three  hundred  curious  who  know  you  to  be  here 
surmise  that  you  are  the  prospective  happy 
groom  —  still,  we  don't  want  any  talk." 

"' Happy  groom?'"  Jack  repeated  absently. 
Then,  "  Oh,  yes,  that's  a  fact.  And  by  the  way, 
Blessy,  do  you  know  I  was  wakened  on  the  roof 
this  afternoon  by  hearing  my  own  name  called  — 
and  I  got  on  to  local  gossip  in  regard  to  my  wife 
quite  some." 

"  Did  you  hear  that?  "  I  giggled. 

"  Sure  I  heard  it.    Did  you?  " 

"  Oh,  Jack,  it's  a  funny  world,  this.  I  seem 
to  see  Alice  looming  again.  Everything  seems 
half  unreal  yet.  But  we've  no  time  to  talk  now. 
Come  along ! " 

As  we  crossed  the  roof  together  on  our  way  to 
the  elevator,  hatless  and  happy  as  two  children, 
I  grabbed  Jack's  sleeve,  detaining  him  just  a 
moment  to  whisper  in  his  ear: 

"  There  they  are,  now,  Dear,  over  by  the  south 
tower  —  that  huge,  ringlety  man  bending  over 
the  pink  clouds  in  the  roller-chair  —  that's  the 
Brigand,  hovering  still,  I  see,  around  the  Gipsy. 
Wouldn't  it  be  terrible  if  he  confused  yellow 


THE     COCOON  173 

hair  with  haloes?  —  and  she  fairly  dripping  with 
any  millionaire's  diamonds!  I  wouldn't  worry 
about  him  so  if  he  weren't  so  alluringly  rich  — 
they  say  he's  called  four  kinds  of  a  king  in  the 
west,  cattle-king  and  three  others,  and  he's  so 
artless.  How  lost  she  would  be,  poor  frail  sis- 
ter, if  he  insisted  on  building  a  cathedral  around 
her!" 

I  saw  Jack  glance  searchingly  at  me  as  if  won- 
dering whether,  by  any  chance,  my  mind  had 
gone  off,  just  the  least  bit.  Still,  his  voice  was 
quite  natural  when  he  whispered: 

"  Don't  you  fret  about  these  people,  my  dear. 
That  man  will  never  offer  that  woman  a  cathe- 
dral. Yachts  and  aeroplanes,  maybe,  and  crys- 
tal palaces  —  but  I  respect  his  discernment  in 
discovering  my  little  girl  for  what  she  really  is, 
in  spite  of  her  somewhat  misleading  halo.  But 
ye  gods!  Who  comes  here?" 

And  before  I  could  answer,  the  Butte,  all  done 
over  in  pink  from  aigrette  to  slippers,  and  a 
mile  high,  at  that,  emerging  apparently  from 
nowhere,  had  rushed  forward  and  taken  me  in 
her  arms. 

"  Don't    mind    me,"    she   deferred    to   Jack. 


174  THE     COCOON 

"I'm  just  obliged  to  hug  her!"  And,  drawing 
me  forcibly  aside,  she  confided : 

"  I've  just  been  layin'  in  wait  for  you  in  the 
quilt  booth  yonder,  watchin'  for  you  to  come 
along.  I  heard  you  had  company.  But,  say! 
Mine  swears  he  never  sent  me  those  yellow  roses! 
I  just  had  to  come  and  tell  you.  But  I  know 
who  sent  'em.  God  A'mighty  sent  'em,  that's 
who!  Sent  'em  out  of  a  clear  sky  because  He 
knew  how  forlorn  I  felt,  and  He  knew  that  my 
beloved  was  on  the  way  to  me  and  that  all  his 
thoughts  were  of  yellow  roses  which  he  couldn't 
find  —  and  He  took  pity  on  me.  Tell  me,  Dear, 
don't  you  think  God  could  have  sent  'em? 
Don't  you  believe  He  did?  " 

She  was  looking  straight  into  my  soul  —  my 
human,  sympathetic,  understanding  sister-wom- 
an's soul  —  and  swallowing  hard  while  I  said  it, 
meeting  her  eager  gaze  steadily,  I  answered  her. 

"  Surely,  I  do.  What  do  we  know  about  di- 
vine agencies?  Certainly  it  was  He  who  sent 
you  your  golden  roses.  Even  if  He  had  had  to 
make  them  on  the  spot,  that  wouldn't  be  any 
trick  at  all  for  the  One  who  could  think  all  the 
world's  roses,  and  endow  them  as  He  has  done. 


THE     COCOON  175 

Besides,  dear,  everything  queer  is  happening. 
Nothing  could  surprise " 

But  she  interrupted: 

"  An'  he's  got  the  license  an'  everything  —  but, 
say !  he  denies  all  that  outfit  of  weddin'  flowers, 
too  —  denies  it  pot  black !  "  Then,  lowering  her 
voice  and  glancing  at  Jack,  who  had  slipped  back 
a  bit  into  the  shadow,  she  flashed:  "  Oh,  say! 
Yours  is  as  good  lookin'  again  as  his  picture, 
although  I'd  know  him  by  it.  Of  course,  I  knew 
he'd  be  classy.  I  heard  a  swell  New  Yorker  was 
up  in  your  room,  your  l  intended,'  they  said,  but 
of  course  I  had  my  own  ideas. 

"  But  tell  me,  you  sweet  thing,  look  straight 
into  my  eyes.  You  couldn't  tell  a  lie,  if  you 
tried.  Is  mine  foolin'  me?  And  didn't  those 
flowers  come  anonymous?  An'  don't  you  an'  I 
know  in  our  souls  they  are  my  bridal  flowers?  " 

"No,  positively,  dear.  They  are  for  another 
wedding  —  and,  of  course,  my  husband  and  I 
are  in  the  secret.  I  didn't  know  till  he  came. 
They  aren't  yours,  but " 

I  was  thinking  fast.  What  I  wanted  to  do 
was  to  offer  her  the  service  of  the  flowers  if  she 
would  take  a  later  hour  than  the  others  for  her 


176  THE     COCOON 

wedding.  But  when  it  came  to  doing  this  very 
definite  thing,  I  found  myself  still  strangely 
timid.  I  couldn't  quite  vouch  for  her  sanity. 
Indications  to  the  contrary  were  too  recent. 
Laying  my  hand  upon  her,  as  in  some  sort  apolo- 
gising for  my  words  which  I  toned  as  gently  as 
I  could,  I  plunged: 

"And  you  say  your  man  has  really  come?" 

" '  Really  come? '  "  she  repeated,  stung  to  the 
quick,  I  feared.  "Well,  I  like  that!"  And 
turning  quickly,  she  called  over  her  shoulder : 

"You,  Willie!  Willie  Winchester!  Come 
out  here  and  show  yourself ! " 

And  out  from  his  hiding,  behind  a  stack  of 
screens,  stepped  forward,  or  rather  ambled,  a 
great,  kindly,  loose-jointed  man,  so  like  the 
Brigand  that  I  started,  almost  hesitating  before 
I  offered  him  my  hand,  as  I  made  a  point  of 
doing. 

But  wrhen  he  had  come  out  into  the  full  light, 
and  the  slanting  rays  of  a  low  sun  fell  into  his 
hair,  illumining  his  face,  I  saw  a  man  still  like 
our  Brigand,  but  glorified,  younger,  gentler,  and 
of  fairer  colouring,  and  I  realised  how  the 
camera,  which  takes  no  note  of  half  shades,  had 


THE     COCOON  177 

seemed  to  present  a  replica  of  the  older  man, 
for  even  in  height  and  general  outline  the  two 
were  singularly  alike. 

"  Mr.  Winchester,  I  want  to  make  you  ac- 
quainted with  Mis'  Heminway,  the  lady  I've 
been  writin'  you  about  all  this  time.  In  other 
words,  this  is  my  Little  Oasis ;  my  intended,  Mis' 
Heminway." 

So  we  were  introduced.  And  then,  of  course, 
I  had  to  call  Jack,  and  he  and  the  "  intended  " 
got  into  a  little  talk  while  the  Butte,  chuckling 
absurdly,  drew  me  apart  again  to  whisper: 

"  Say,  ain't  he  the  spittin'  image  of  Col.  Cop- 
perthwaite?  I  saw  you  see  it  quick  as  you  laid 
eyes  on  him.  They  tell  me  that  when  I  used  to 
be  nervous  and  half  nutty,  whilst  I  was  losin' 
my  sleep  so  constant,  I  fairly  hounded  the 
colonel.  You  see,  I  took  him  for  my  Willie. 
Wasn't  it  fierce?  " 

Before  we  parted,  it  was  agreed  that  by  as- 
sumed concurrence  of  the  first  parties  in  the 
first  ceremony  the  second  wedding  that  evening 
should  occur  at  ten  o'clock,  the  floral  decorations 
to  remain  intact ;  also  that,  in  the  absence  of  any 
of  her  near  of  kin,  I  should  stand  with  the  second 


178  THE     COCOON 

bride,  also,  as  matron  of  honour.  Then  with  a 
final  precautionary  "  Mum's  the  word,"  fairly 
wresting  myself  from  the  mammoth  blush  which 
suffused  me  in  "  just  one  parting  hug,"  I  seized 
Jack's  arm  and  we  hurried  down  together  —  to 
register  and  to  "  make  good." 

During  all  this  rapid  fire,  there  smouldered 
as  a  red  coal  in  my  sub-consciousness  a  sense  of 
shame  and  responsibility  as  to  the  letter  which 
lay  deep  in  my  pocket;  and  so  the  first  thing  I 
did  when  we  had  reached  the  rotunda,  while 
Jack  was  writing  his  name  in  the  great  book, 
was  to  hand  the  letter,  with  a  sinful  tip,  to  the 
porter  with  a  request  that  he  deliver  it  without 
delay  to  the  lady  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  as 
it  had  been  sent  by  mistake  in  Mrs.  Heminway's 
mail;  on  doing  which,  thus  openly,  I  felt  some- 
thing like  a  sense  of  dignity  restored. 

And  this,  Dear  Book,  is  the  story  as  nearly  as 
I  can  tell  it  straight,  of  how  there  came  to  be 
two  weddings  in  the  chapel  at  Seafair  that  even- 
ing —  two  notable  weddings,  indeed,  for  the  real 
identity  of  the  Butte  and  still  more  of  her  man, 
and  their  romance,  of  which  it  would  be  only 
tantalising  to  offer  a  hint  and  which  it  would 


THE     COCOON  179 

take  much  too  long  to  tell  —  all  that  is  another 
story. 

There  was  a  menacing  hitch  in  the  affair  for 
a  little  while  when  it  was  learned  that  the  train 
from  Richmond  which  was  to  fetch  the  officiating 
ministers  had  been  detained  by  a  "freight 
wreck  ahead  "  and  could  not  possibly  arrive  be- 
fore midnight;  but  while  everybody  concerned 
was  consulting  and  no  one  able  to  suggest  relief, 
into  the  breach  stepped  who  but  the  Brigand,  if 
you  please,  eager,  complaisant,  offering  his 
services. 

He  had  been  regularly  licensed  as  the  Camp- 
bellite  "  Christian  "  minister,  many  years  before, 
it  was  true,  but  he  had  always  kept  himself 
equipped  for  emergencies  (plural,  please  notice) 
and  could  marry,  baptise,  or  bury  on  occasion. 
Indeed,  before  any  one  could  question  him,  he 
had  whipped  out  his  license  and  robes,  the  use  of 
the  latter,  he  explained,  being  a  matter  of  choice. 

For  himself,  although  exercising  his  preroga- 
tive only  by  authority  conferred  by  a  church 
connection  which  discountenanced  ceremonial 
or  display,  he  felt  a  certain  dignity  in  donning 
the  surplice  and  stole  for  the  marriage  rite. 


180  THE     COCOON 

Also,  the  Episcopal  form  was  at  their  service, 
if  preferred;  and  further,  he  hesitated  to  sug- 
gest—  and  yet  why  should  one  hesitate  to  do 
a  kindly  turn?  —  it  was  no  business  of  his, 
although,  of  course,  it  would  be  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness if  Mme.  Gipsy  Fournette  could  be  iuduced 
to  sing  —  if  it  was  desired,  he  was  not  sure,  but 
perhaps — ?  She  was  very  expensive,  of  course, 
but  if  people  knew  what  was  what  and  were 
willing  to  pay  for  the  best  —  Madame  had 
just  been  discharged  by  her  physician  and  would 
be  returning  to  her  work  in  a  day  or  so.  It  was 
the  chance  of  a  lifetime. 

Certainly  he  would  see  about  it,  although  he 
always  advised  the  principals  to  approach  a  pro- 
fessional on  a  matter  of  business.  She  was  an 
artist  and  could  be  tres  difficile  if  she  were  pro- 
voked. 

Well,  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  when  I 
walked  up  the  chapel  aisle,  that  evening,  pre- 
ceding the  first  bride,  correctly,  my  first  surprise 
came  in  the  Wedding  March  from  Lohengrin,  a 
contribution  of  local  talent  and  admirably  done 
by  whom  but  the  poor  Visiting  Lady  whom  I  did 
not  recognise,  of  course,  until  later  in  the  even- 


THE    COCOON  181 

ing,  when  it  was  my  delight  to  take  her  hand, 
and  virtually,  if  not  literally,  tell  her  that  I 
loved  her.  And  I  did,  as  I  implied  it,  with  all 
my  heart;  and  I  was  so  glad  to  discover  that 
she  had  the  consolations  of  music  when  her 
thankless  task  of  feeding  sugar  to  jungle  beasts 
in  a  menagerie  became  too  hard. 

At  the  moment  we  reached  the  chancel  and 
the  waiting  groom,  even  while  the  last  notes  of 
the  organ  were  dying,  there  arose  a  rich  con- 
tralto voice,  tender  and  sweet  in  Cantor's  beau- 
tiful "Oh,  Fair,  Oh,  Sweet  and  Holy,"  filling 
the  chapel  with  melody  so  tender,  so  really 
"  sweet  and  holy  "  in  tone  suggestion  as  to  be- 
come a  fitting  part  of  worship,  such  was  the  art 
of  Gipsy  Fournette,  such  nature's  endowment  to 
her. 

And  while  she  approached  the  closing  notes 
of  her  song,  slowly,  noiselessly,  from  behind  the 
palms  to  the  left  of  the  high  altar,  there  stepped 
the  most  resplendent  creature  of  us  all,  for  I 
assure  you,  dear,  dear  Book,  our  Brigand  had 
neglected  nothing  in  the  way  of  magnificence. 

My  recollection  of  him  now  is  as  of  a  great 
blur  of  crimson  and  gold,  and  when  I  appealed 


182  THE     COCOON 

to  Jack  —  afterward,  of  course, —  he  could  give 
me  little  satisfaction  as  to  its  significance. 

He  insisted,  however,  in  taking  upon  himself 
any  possible  blame  in  the  matter,  as  he  con- 
fessed, when  I  had  delivered  myself  of  my  opin- 
ion on  the  subject  —  which  was  that  our  offici- 
ating minister,  in  the  performance  of  a  sacred 
Christian  ceremony,  had  got  himself  up  like  a 
pagan,  and  that  to  my  mind,  his  appearance 
suggested  a  cross  between  a  Chinese  mandarin 
and  a  cockatoo  —  when  I  had  got  this  venom  out 
of  my  system,  I  say,  Jack  insisted  that  any  blame 
as  to  the  Brigand's  effort  in  our  behalf  should 
be  laid  at  his  door,  as  wrhen  that  artless  though 
dangerously  resourceful  person  had  consulted 
him  in  the  matter,  he  was  busy  with  other  things 
and  had  playfully  thrown  at  him  that  this  was 
to  be  a  full-dress  occasion  and  to  "  go  ahead  and 
do  his  damnedest!" 

Which  it  seems,  he  did.  But  to  do  him  jus- 
tice, when  approached  playfully  at  the  supper- 
table  on  the  subject  of  "  presenting  a  pagan  priest 
to  a  Christian  congregation,"  he  was  eager  to  ex- 
plain with  pains  and  particularity  that  he  had 
carefully  selected  from  such  oriental  garments 


THE     COCOON  183 

as  he  had  in  his  trunk  only  such  as  symbolised 
spiritualism  without  dogma  and  which  conse- 
quently belonged  by  right  to  west  as  well  as 
east.  Christianity  had  a  right  to  all  the  lofty 
symbolism  there  was,  or  "  the  best  that  was  go- 
ing," to  quote  literally.  He  wished  he  could 
explain,  but  it  was  difficult  to  interpret  the 
Orient  in  the  clumsy  phrasing  of  occidental 
tongues. 

We  were  glad  to  know  all  this,  for  every  rea- 
son, and  indeed,  in  any  event,  it  would  have  been 
particularly  hard  to  find  serious  fault  with  a 
man  who,  after  putting  himself  to  so  great  pains, 
had  resented  even  a  mention  of  compensation  for 
his  services.  Besides  neither  of  the  parties  most 
concerned  had  seemed  to  find  anything  to  criti- 
cise, which  was  a  comfort. 

Of  course,  Jack  made  the  honorarium  to 
Mile.  Fournette  with  a  view  to  pleasing  old 
Mother  Haldane.  Money  was  positively  no  ob- 
ject, and  when  a  man  with  no  cost  to  himself 
can  honestly  encourage  the  arts,  entertain  a  lot 
of  pleasure-hungry  shut-ins,  and  make  two 
women  supremely  happy  —  why  not? 

And  it  is  fair  to  suppose  that  the  groom  from 


184  THE    COCOON 

Montana  duplicated  her  honorarium,  for  at  the 
precise  place  in  the  second  ceremony  where  she 
had  sung  in  the  first,  the  Gipsy  gave  us  in  fine 
form,  Rubinstein's  delightful  interpretation  of 
Heine's  "  Thou  Art  Like  a  Lovely  Flower  " — 
gave  it  thus  in  English  translation,  too,  which  I 
regretted,  although  I  was  probably  the  only 
person  present  who  was  vulgar  enough  to  apply 
the  words  personally  to  the  beaming  bride  and 
to  run  a  troublesome  mind  swiftly  through  an 
interminable  list  of  familiar  flowers,  and  with- 
out result 

Let  it  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  the 
happy  bride  from  Montana,  while  perhaps  fail- 
ing to  measure  up  as  a  flower,  fell  short  in  any 
particular  as  to  full  bridal  dress,  correct  and 
elegant,  although  the  ultra  critical  might  have 
questioned  its  fitness  for  so  necessarily  uncon- 
ventional an  occasion ;  but  this  would  have  been 
because  they  were  sentiment -blind  and  unworthy 
witnesses  of  a  ceremony  of  high  romance. 

Even  before  the  quiet  departure  of  the  first 
bridal  party,  a  brilliant  line  of  automobiles  had 
begun  to  assemble  at  the  entrance  of  the  Sani- 
tarium and  guests  from  afar  streamed  into  the 


THE     COCOON  185 

chapel,  even  while  the  posted  notices  of  "  general 
invitation  "  were  crowding  it  beyond  its  doors,  so 
that  resetted  ushers  in  evening  dress,  Drs.  Wei- 
born  and  others  of  the  younger  members  of  the 
staff,  were  kept  busy  clearing  the  way  for  the 
second  function,  when  the  majestic  bride  strode 
measuredly  in  her  place  in  full  regalia,  veil, 
orange-flowers  and  train,  yes,  and  even  a  train- 
bearer,  a  fairy  of  five,  whom  I  succeeded  in  cap- 
turing for  the  occasion  from  the  wife  of  one  of 
the  resident  doctors. 

The  Butte  wished  it  thus,  not  that  she  or  her 
Willie  cared  a  rap,  she  assured  me,  but  she  "  had 
had  that  weddin'  outfit  so  long,  and  a  girl  could 
wear  orange-blossoms  only  once.  Then,  too,  it 
would  be  somethin'  worth  tellin'  about  and 
maybe  showin',  in  after  years:  ' mother  in  her 
bridal  dress/  and  even  grandmother,  in  time  — 
one  never  could  tell.  Of  course,  she  would  have 
the  picture  taken  the  first  thing,  in  New  York." 

This  last  wish,  however,  I  easily  saw  to  it  that 
she  should  realise  without  delay,  for  it  needed 
only  a  hint  to  the  good  lady  of  the  Boston  bag 
to  have  her  whip  out  a  camera  and  "  a  package 
of  flash-light,"  and,  at  the  psychological  moment, 


186  THE     COCOON 

the  thing  was  done  in  a  wink  —  done  from  the 
choir-gallery  of  the  chapel,  just  as  the  bride 
turned  smiling  from  the  altar  beside  her  man. 

And  so  it  happened  that  the  crowning  spec- 
tacular event  of  the  evening  was  the  sensational 
marriage  and  departure  of  the  young  lady  of 
Butte,  and  when  the  honking  cortege  finally  dis- 
appeared, a  blaze  of  glory  along  the  beachroad, 
and  the  nine-days'-wonder  of  it  all  had  been 
whispered  out  in  the  corridors  and  on  the  roof, 
the  sanitarium  settled  down  into  a  dead  calm. 

Poor  Butte!  She  had  had  a  romantic  if  sad 
and  spectacular  life  up  to  this.  If  only  I  could 
tell  you  her  story!  And  his  —  her  Willie's!  — 
what  difficulties  they  had  surmounted,  and  what 
they  are  even  now  setting  out  to  accomplish, 
God  help  them ! 

He  —  Mr.  Winchester,  to  be  decent  —  was  de- 
lighted with  everything  and  insisted  on  throwing 
money  out  promiscuously,  but,  of  course,  again, 
Jack  could  not  fail  the  Lady  Haldane. 

He  did  relent,  however,  to  the  extent  of  taking 
Winchester  into  his  confidence  as  to  the  official 
reporter,  fee  and  all,  with  the  result  that  the 
press  of  east  and  west,  from  Maine  to  California, 


THE     COCOON  187 

was  supplied  with  distinguished  notices  written, 
on  a  duplicate  order,  by  the  radiant  Joke-man, 
whose  name  for  the  nonce  it  seems  high  time  to 
be  writing  with  a  capital,  and  who  resembled 
nothing  so  much  as  a  migratory  grin,  as  he  circu- 
lated officially  at  both  functions. 

At  double  weddings,  I  believe,  both  ceremonies 
are  incorporated  in  a  single  service;  thus,  the 
affair  at  Seafair  was  not  strictly  of  this  class, 
and  yet  when  my  friends  of  that  kindly  institu- 
tion insisted  on  calling  this  a  triple  wedding,  in- 
asmuch as  the  matron-of-honour  in  her  yellow- 
ing wedding-gown  had  not  to  them  been  married 
until  the  great  occasion,  I  accepted  the  role  of 
stale  bride  with  blushing  apology,  while  old  Dr. 
Jacques,  who  is  a  saint  if  there  ever  was  one, 
took  my  side  like  a  man  while  he  explained  how 
it  hadn't  been  my  fault  in  the  least,  but  had  all 
come  about  through  a  slight  inadvertence  on  the 
part  of  their  office  clerk,  who  had  misunderstood 
on  my  arrival. 

And  then  having  the  floor,  he  went  on  to  as- 
sure us  that  Miss  Butterfield's  marriage  had 
been  pending  ever  since  her  admittance  and  had 
only  awaited  his  professional  permission,  which 


188  THE     COCOON 

had  gone  into  the  mail  to  her  people  only  the  day 
before  the  unexpected  appearance  of  the  groom, 
so  that,  all  other  things  arranged,  he  had  no 
right  to  interpose  objection;  after  which,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  kindly  old  eye  such  as  I  had  never 
seen  there  before,  he  laughingly  added  that  while 
no  doubt  he  seemed  to  us  an  unsuspicious,  easily 
gulled  old  codger,  he  was  in  fact  the  custodian 
of  so  many  vital  secrets  that  he  sometimes  felt 
like  a  walking  arsenal,  and  was  half  afraid  to 
go  near  the  fire  lest  he  should  blow  up,  and  then, 
where  would  we  all  be? 

Well,  so  ended  my  brief,  if  strenuous  pursuit 
of  the  Rest  Cure,  for  in  the  dead  calm  of  my 
week  of  probation,  I  was  ready  meekly,  con- 
tritely and  obediently  to  fold  my  hands  and  take 
all  my  orders  from  Jack,  who  got  them  from  Dr. 
Jacques,  of  course,  with  the  result  that,  on  my 
return  home,  I  looked  so  renewed  and  was  so 
conspicuously  able  without  fatigue  to  resume  the 
comparative  tranquillity  of  social  life  as  it  is 
lived  in  semi-gay  New  York  that  several  of 
Jack's  friends  have  already  sent  their  nerve- 
racked  wives  to  this  Haven  of  Repose  with  the 


189 

cogent  argument  that  "  it  stands  to  reason  that 
when  a  woman  is  worn  out  with  a  thousand 
things,  there's  nothing  like  a  negative  existence 
—  still,  colourless  days  with  tranquillizing  sur- 
roundings—  to  bring  her  through;  nothing,  in 
fact,  like  a  cocoon  for  the  recovery  of  wings." 

And  when  they  talk  that  way,  Jack  and  I  are 
still  obliged  to  avoid  each  other's  eyes.  After 
a  first  little  fling  with  our  friends,  we  have  set- 
tled down,  and  we  are  really  living  more  quietly, 
more  sanely  than  in  the  old  days,  taking  stated 
times  off  from  social  things  and  getting  into  the 
open  as  much  as  possible,  with  sky-spaces  for 
tranquil  thinking  and  stillness  in  which  to  pos- 
sess our  souls. 

The  summer  cottage  in  its  garden  by  the  sea 
is  ready  for  us,  its  vine-clad  veranda  fairly 
blooming  itself  away  in  anticipation  of  our  com- 
ing, but  we  delay  going  this  season  because  we 
are  secretly  on  a  still  hunt  in  town  for  something 
very  near  our  hearts;  and  so,  in  the  cosy  even- 
ings now,  while  Jack  knits  his  brow  over  some 
perplexing  point  in  the  brief  he  is  trying  to 
write,  on  his  side  of  the  library  table,  and  the 
canaries  drowse  in  their  little  cage,  one  on  the 


190  THE     COCOON 

nest  and  the  man-bird  chirping  an  occasional 
sleepy  assurance  of  guardianship  beside  her, 
Jack  glances  over  his  glasses  and  smiles  at  them 
and  then  he  turns  to  me.  So  he  did  last  night, 
and  seeing  me  bending  to  my  task  of  braiding 
pink  ribbons  over  and  under  the  rim  of  a  great 
basket  beside  me,  he  bit  his  lip  and  flung  at  me : 

"What's  all  that  about,  Blessibus?  It  looks 
awfully  fetching." 

And  I  answered  merrily : 

"You're  cheating,  Jack.  You  promised  not 
to  look  till  it's  done.  But  it's  the  bassinet,  if 
you  must  know.  Pink  is  for  girls,  Jack." 

And  we  are  very  happy,  even  when  it  is  dark 
night  and  raining  outside,  for  we  know  that  be- 
yond the  rain  and  above  the  clouds, 

"  God's  in  His  heaven, 
All's  right  with  the  world." 


THE  END 


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